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COPyRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A Trolley Honeymoon 

From 

Delaware to Maine 

By 

CLINTON W, LUCAS 

M 
Fully illustrated tuith 53 engra.'vings 



THE M. W. HAZEN COMPANY 

NEW YORK 






LIBRARY cf CONGRESsI 


Two Cooies 


Keceived 


NOV 10 


iyu4 


Copyritrnt tntry 

CLASS </«. XAc. NOi 

COPY B. 



Copyright, 1904, 
By M. W. HAZEN 



(October) 



INTRODUCTION 

The chief object of this volume is to record the adven- 
tures and misadventures of a ten-days' trolley trip from 
Delaware to Maine — a distance of about five hundred 
miles, as the electrics run. As the dominant idea was 
a pleasant outing, the two travelers did not follow 
the direct route, preferring in every case the allure- 
ments of an attractive countryside to the mere saving 
of time and distance. For there are more things in 
trolleying than are dreamt of in the philosophy of 
time-tables and connecting schedules. 

Though the experi-ences here recorded are in the 
main autobiographical, yet the sequence of events has 
sometimes been changed, and an element of fiction 
added to give unity to the narrative. 

Philadelphia, Pa. 



LIST OF CHAPTERS 

CHAP. PAGE 

I. A Spectacular Start 7 

II. From Quakerdom by Pastoral Scenes 20 

III. Misadv'entures in Jersey 38 

IV. A Swarm of Excursionists 52 

V. On the Connecticut Shore 60 

VI. A Mysterious Pursuit 72 

VII. From Hartford over the Massachl'setts Hills 82 

VIII. A Fortunate Decision 96 

IX. In which We are Gorged with History 108 

X. Coming through the Ryes 117 



w. 


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A Trolley Honeymoon 

CHAPTER I. 

A Spectacular Start. 

" Mercy's sake, what will you do when there's a 
thunderstorm ? " queried of us one dear, old soul upon 
whose life of celibacy the haunting fear of lightning 
had cast its blighting shadow. 

" What will the thunderstorm do? That's the ques- 
tion," we countered. 

" You'll surely be struck," she added oracularly. 

Though such were the predictions of ill, when 
Louisa and I broached our plan of trolleying to Maine, 
yet like Hamlet we defied augury. For we had been 
seized with trolley mania so long that it was only 
natural we should be carried away by it even on our 
honeymoon. 

To be sure, a trolley trip of five hundred miles prom- 
ised some measure of uncertainty, if not discomfort; 
but duly forewarned, as we had been, we made careful 
preparations for the journey, preparations indeed that 
in the light of subsequent experience bordered on the 
grotesque. 

Advice was generously showered upon us. First of 
all, we were cautioned by friends rich in wisdom to 
guard against the vagaries of an irresponsible weather 

7 



8 



A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON 



bureau, and particularly to take along a sufficient sup- 
ply of coats and wraps, though as to what a sufficiency 
was, many conflicting standards were suggested. All 
these suggestions, however, we took greedily as a cat 
laps milk; and the consequence was that when we 
started on our trip, we were saddled with an array of 
personal baggage that would have appalled even a 
British tourist on a Channel steamer. Long wraps and 






THE STARTING POINT, WILMINGTON 



short wraps there were; thick coats and thin coats; 
linen dusters and mackintoshes; rubbers and umbrel- 
las — all alike bidding defiance to Jove and weather 
bureaus. 

It was under this smothering load that we peeped 
one July noon as we sallied from our home in Wilming- 
ton amid a gleeful shower of rice and old shoes. The 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 9 

spectacular congratulations of a score of merry friends 
attended us to Court House Corner, where we were to 
board the trolley car for Darby. It was already in 
sight. 

Hardly, however, had we heard the larum of the 
vibrating gong before a waggish member of our escort- 
ing party stepped in front of me and, making an excru- 
ciating bow, presented us on behalf of our assembled 
friends with a kodak and a huge, hollow pencil over 
two feet long, filled brimful with shining nickels fresh 
from the mint. Stammering out our thanks for the 
appropriate gifts, we dubbed them on the spot Killdeer 
and Nicholas Nickleby respectively; and most faithful 
companions both proved to be. 

The motorman pulled up promptly at my signal, 
but we were so heavily loaded down with coats, suit 
cases and what-not, and so embarrassed by the spec- 
tacular demonstrations of our friends, that boarding 
the car proved far from an eas}' manoeuvre. I tried 
to assume an air of dignified unconcern ; but, as usual, 
it was the umbrella that undid me. Just as I was 
about to gripe the handrail, the skeleton-ribbed little 
imp slipped its moorings — purposely of course — from 
under the coats on my arm and, slyly tripping me up, 
sent me sprawling in the dust. 

" If I had only one coat more," I thought, directing 
an apologetic look at Louisa, " but that a magic one 
like Brunhilde's to make me invisible." 

Amid salvos of mock applause I scrambled up and, 
gathering the scattered baggage, I dove desperately 
into the car, clutching Killdeer in one hand, and 
Nicholas in the other. As I swung myself into a seat, 



10 A TROLLEY HONEYMOOX 

my kodak which I was carrying- with all the conscious 
pride of the amateur's first, struck against a yellow tur- 
ban in front of me with sufficient force to bring forth 
the protesting ejaculation, " Fo' de Lawd sake," while 
the whites of two eyes blinked reproachfully at me. 

Louisa, however, who had preceded me into the car, 
had fared much better. Fortunately, her manual dex- 
terity acquired naturally with the shopping- habit, 




MARKET STREET, WILMINGTON 

enabled her to retain a masterly grip upon l)ag and 
baggage. As the conductor jangled the double signal 
to start, a whirlwind of rice swept past our seats to the 
boundless delight of two small boys behind us; and 
the voices of our friends rose in one long wavering 
cheer, while away we sped down North INIarket street. 
I shot a hastv glance at the tail-board of the car, but 



A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON 11 

the alert conductor had already removed a huge, ribr 
bon-bedecked placard that proclaimed trumpet-tongued 
" Off on a Trolley Honeymoon." 

It was perfect trolley weather; scarcely a cloud was 
in the sky; and the sun's rays were tempered by a 
gentle breeze. 

" 'Twas one of the charmed days, 

When the genius of God doth flow, 
The wind may alter twenty ways, 

A tempest cannot blow ; 
It may blow^ north, it still is warm; 

Or south, it still is clear; 
Or east, it smells like a clover farm; 

Or west, no thunder fear." 

The tranquil spirit of that July day had descended 
upon the shade-embowered streets of Wilmington. 
Never had they seemed more deeply peaceful — a calm 
that breathed no whisper of the riotous scenes which 
but a few days later made Delaware the nation's talk. 
Only the noisy gratulations of our escorting party 
broke the quietude of court-house corner. Just across 
the way under a canopy of trees a grizzled negro, 
through whose torn straw hat woolly wisps of hair 
were straggling, was reclining against the iron fence 
in deep enjoyment of noontide nap. A block away an 
autocar stood near the curb. Profiting by the absence 
of the owner, a veritable Uncle Remus, black as the 
ace of spades, was down on his hands and knees, explor- 
ing the mysteries of the machine. There was a grin 
on his face from ear to ear, as he recklessly fondled 
the cranks and levers; Imt luckily in spite of strong 



12 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

provocation the auto kept its self-control, while Uncle 
Remus continued his investigations. 

Still his fate is only conjectural, for he was soon 
lost to view, as we dashed down North Market street. 
At Brandywine bridge we received a farewell volley of 
rice from the hands of three devoted but misguided 
friends, who had planned a surprise for us there. 
Shaking off the effects of the fusilade. we settled our- 
selves comfortably for the long ride before us. In a 
few minutes we were out in the open country, and the 
unbroken rumble of the wheels told of a clear track 
and heightened speed. As we whizzed past a corn- 
field on the left, a " little boy blue," catching the spirit 
of the occasion, waved his hoe gleefully at us. To the 
right we looked down upon the broad waters of the 
Delaware glistening in the sun, and beyond we 
described a splotch of green and yellow, the woods and 
fields of Jersey miles away. 

Rumble — Rattle. On we sped by field and farm, 
by the antiquated toll-gates, where the drowsy keepers 
gazed wearily at us, and then by sleepy cross-roads and 
countrv stores with boxes and barrels piled high in 
front, perched luxuriously upon which sat groups of 
gossiping loungers. Rattle — Rumble. x\long we 
rushed past hovel and villa, past hedge and rail fence, 
disturbing the day dream of the meditative cow and 
provoking to explosive wrath the barking small dog by 
the roadside. Now we scurried over the main highway, 
now we darted through the woods and spluttered out 
again upon the Chester pike. Up hill and down we 
tore, zigging and zagging through garden and orchard 
until crossing the State line we neared the river's edge. 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



13 



Now, with a louder warning of the gong, we went 
whirhng past rows of factory tenements and a stone 
mill hardby at a sharp bend in the road; then rose 
before us the stacks and chimneys of Chester. At 
slackened speed we ran through the suburbs, where we 
caught a fleeting view of the darker side of Chester 
life — three little pickaninnies doing a cakewalk on a 




GLIMPSE OF THE DELAWARE 



Street corner. There was a brief stop in the center of 
the town. Few signs of activity were visible; but near 
a weather-beaten pagoda, which served as a newspaper 
stand, were lounging a group of men and boys with 
hands in their pockets, gazing listlessly upon passing 
objects. Another twist and turn; and we were out on 
the pike again, flying fast toward Darby and drawing 
gradually awa^ from the river. 



14 



A TIWLLEY HONEYMOON 



Rumble — Rattle. We bustled through a succession 
of suburban villages, past old stone houses and old- 
time taverns, the walls of which had often resounded 
to the echoes of the post horn; and now we were bowl- 
ing along a grass track under arching shade trees. 
Here a beard-blown goat, tied to a stake, turned an 
imploring look upon us; and there a flaring sign, 



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A PASSING SHOT 



" Eggs for Hatching," brought the old proverb to 
mind. 

At the dissolving scenes I snapped Killdeer right and 
left, though, as I afterwards learned, with a reckless 
defiance of the most elementary laws of photography. 
At parting, my friends had scrupulously enjoined upon 
me, when taking a snap, to stand about ten feet off and 
always keep the object in the sun. The gentle satire 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOOA' 15 

of this advice soon became patent, for all along the 
route the most striking " subjects " conspired to stand 
in the deepest shadow or a stone shot off; and if by- 
chance, or mistake, the sunlight lit up a scene, the view 
had fled before I could level Killdeer. Then I resolved 
to discard the use of the finder, and like my hero of 
schoolboy days, Hawkeye, fire by the sense of touch. 
This I did, sparing neither Nature, man nor beast, 
shooting as fast as I could load and reload. As noth- 
ing worth a snap condescended to stray within the ten- 
foot limit, I defied space and shot anything that swept 
past the horizon. It was a proud moment when I 
snapped at the Delaware, while we were going at the 
fastest burst of speed; but great was my chagrin to 
learn a few weeks later on developing the film that my 
rapid fire art had reproduced a superb likeness of Mt. 
Pelee at a busy hour ; in some mysterious way the swirl 
of the kodak had transformed the peaceful Delaware 
into inky black clouds and eddies of volcanic smoke. 

Darby corner looked at one with itself and all the 
world, when we descended from the flyer there, to 
change for Philadelphia. 

" That's a haunted house over there, isn't it ? " 
exclaimed Louisa, indicating a small frame house on a 
corner diagonally across from where we stood. It was 
dilapidated and moss-covered with age; the faded slat 
shutters were closed tight, except under a dormer win- 
dow, where they had been partly ripped off, disclosing 
broken window panes; in short every indication of 
occupancy was wanting. 

" You must get within ten feet of it," I enjoined 
upon Louisa, who was aiming the kodak at the house. 



16 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



" Not of a haunted house," she returned, taking three 
snaps excitedly. I thought no more about them until 
weeks afterward, when striking off the prints I found 
I had three shadowy houses standing on the very same 
spot — all limned on one film. 

'' I told you it was haunted," smiled Louisa. 

" It certainly does look ghastly," I assented, mark- 
ing for identification Killdeer's first spirit picture. 




ON CHESTER PIKE. NORWOOD 



There was nothing to disturb the solemn stillness of 
Darby save the rattle of a double truck, which came 
spinning out of the car-barn a short distance up the 
winding street. We were standing in front of an ice 
cream experimental station, conjecturing the meaning 
of a sign above the door that read " Pappas." As we 
were thus engaged, our speculations were suddenly 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



17 



interrupted by a stubby, red-faced man with a wrinkled 
blue suit and a professional trolley expression, who 
smirking grotesquely, thrust into my hand an opened 
telegram with an intimation that I was the person to 
whom it related. Scrutinizing it, I read: "Bridal 
couple arrived Darby from W. 2-30 — have special 
ready." Though I recognized in the announcement 
the fine Italian hand of our mischievous friends at 




DARBY PEACEFULNESS 



home, I earnestly disclaimed the unexpected honor, at 
the same time absentmindedly flicking a few stray 
flakes of rice from the coats upon my arm. The regu- 
lar for Philadelphia was just starting and we hurriedly 
fled to it, leaving the inquisitive conductor in a state 
of mingled wrath and perplexity. 

On we sped into the city limits. Stops were fe\V, 



18 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

We scuttled steadily along, past the creek and dam by 
the edge of which stand the venerable walls of the Blue 
Bell tavern; past the trim enclosure and iron railings 
of historic St. James; past shanty and cottage; along 
by signs proclaiming " Pasturage for Horses," and in 
odd juxtaposition rows of newly-built houses with the 
builders' placards still attached to them; by endless 
rows of porches, not a few of which were festooned 
with the family wash in a prevailing color scheme of 
red and white; down streets lined with maples, from 
one of which a sign, " Socialistic Mass Meeting," 
stared us aggressively in the face; along past the low, 
brick walls of the factory where the first trolley car 
was built; and then by a modest structure which pro- 
claimed itself " The Home for Widows and Single 
Women," but which nevertheless gave no sign of 
human habitation. Soon the columned entrance of 
Woodlands Cemetery was in sight. Then speedily rose 
before us the Memorial Tower of the University, its 
arched entrance affording us a brief peep at the trim 
greensward within; and only a block away the green 
walls of College Hall mantled with woodbine, while 
nearby could be seen the red turrets and grinning gar- 
goyles of the Library building. 

The scene shifted quickly to the muddy Schuylkill, 
of which we had a hurried view from the bridge above. 
Its banks were lined with coal yards and blackened 
walls, while from the yellowish haze peered many tow- 
ering chimney stacks, smudging the sky with inky 
smoke. 

Now at last we were speeding down Chestnut street. 
As we crossed Broad, we caught sight of the gray, 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



19 



weather-stained walls of the Public Buildings; and 
craning our necks, we spyglassed high up on the tower 
the long coat and wide-brimmed hat of William Penn, 
his back half turned upon us. We were in the heart 
of Quaker dom. 




IN THE HEART OF OUAKERDOM 



CHAPTER II. 

From Quakerdom by Pastoral Scenes. 

Monday^ sacred in a pristine civilization to the wash- 
tub, is bargain day in Philadelphia ; and it is then that 
Quakerdom seethes with excitement. The corners of 
Eighth and Market streets, in the shadow as they are 
of four department stores, are a center of the shopping 
hurricane. As we pushed through the scurrying throng 
on the edge of the storm, Louisa caught the contagion 
of the scene, and her eyes danced with the elementary 
passion of the hour sale and bargain counter. 

The Willow Grove car, however, was at the crossing 
and beckoned us onward up Eighth street to complete 
the second stage of our journey. Though this narrow 
thoroughfare, lined as it was with small shops and bust- 
ling with a motley throng of hawker, shopper, and 
lounger, certainly abounds in the element of human 
interest, yet its scenic setting is but a forlorn waste of 
signs and awnings. 

" It's the fermentation of the ignominious," quoted 
Louisa, who adores Ruskin and whose art runs to dale 
and dingle and bosky bourn. 

" And here's some of the ignominious, fermenting 
now," I chimed in, as the car stopped short at an alley- 
like street, where two teams, one a dump cart, had 
interlocked their wheels, stoutly disputing the right of 
way. The angry drivers, coats ofif, were shaking their 

20 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



21 



fists in each other's face, and exchanging defiance in a 
dialect racy of Eighth street, while a ring of seedy- 
looking bystanders were watching the melodrama with 
infinite delight. We rode on before hostilities were 
concluded, but mock wagers on the outcome were made 
bv our fellow-passengers with the odds strongly 
against the probability of casualties. Leaving behind 




NEAR INDEPENDENCE HALL, PHILADELPHIA 



the region of small shops, we scurried past solid rows 
of brick houses with prim white shutters and marble 
doorsteps. 

Soon, however, all these had faded in the dim dis- 
tance and we were out on the Old York Road, where 
the rarest of trolleying was in store for us. If William 
Penn founded the Quaker city, God made its suburbs — 
a fair countryside that now passed before us in dis- 



22 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

solving views, as our car at quickened speed plunged 
on to Willow Grove: 

" Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 
As the landskip round it measures." 

We trolleyed past lawns and meadows, stately villas 
and trim gardens, old wayside inns and ivy-covered 
churches lodged under the spreading trees; here a 
classic gateway with Ionic peristyle; there an ancient 
mansion half hidden behind high walls of solid 
masonry; a wide stretch of green fields in the fore- 
ground, a background of woodland; winding country 
lanes deep in shade; and last but not least a valley 
sweeping northward and disclosing in far perspective 
green hills crowned w^ith a bluish haze. 

There was one passenger, however, to whom the 
alluring scenery was all a blank. Though the car was 
far from crowded, he had deliberately seated himself 
on the sunny side and pulled down the curtains near 
him to blot out the view. Then unfolding his morning 
paper, he remained buried in the contents of the sport- 
ing page until Horseheaven came in sight. Perhaps 
his attention may have been distracted by the ghostly 
neigh that still echoes, as some fancy, from this his- 
toric knoll, where in the days of the winding post horn 
many a worn-out sorrel and bay were let loose to 
browse their last.- Thoroughbred and plug. Bucephalus 
and Blackberry, Horseheaven levelled all ; and to what 
base uses did they not return ? 

We found few excursionists at Willow Grove, for 
the hour was still early. The spacious grounds, how- 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



23 



ever, of this famous resort looked as attractive as ever; 
and over them hung memories of Damrosch and Sousa. 
That day Creatore and his band were advertised, so 
that we were sorely tempted to tarry for the music ; but 
baggage-hampered as we were, we stood hesitant before 
the gates of Paradise until the sound of the clanging 
gong from up the hill signalled the approach of the 




OLD MILL NEAR OGONTZ 



Doylestown car. I waved Nicholas at the motorman 
and we clambered quickly aboard. 

" This is real country," exclaimed Louisa, delight- 
edly, as with heads bared to the exhilarating breeze and 
ensconced comfortably amid our multitudinous coats 
and grips on a front seat of the jolting four-wheeler, 
we flashed along the Horshampike, past field and farm, 
barn and windmill, orchard and truck patch. The 



24 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

scent of clover and new mown hay was in the air. 
Saba^an odors tinctured mikhy by stray whiffs from 
wayside barnyards; while kine and swine, swine and 
kine flew apparently across our vision with a famil- 
iarity that bred contempt. Contempt, certainly on the 
part of the cows, for systematically switching their 
tails and chewing their introspective cuds, they 
regarded us with an expression of blank indifference. 
The many crumpled horns (at any rate they looked 
crumpled from the bobbing flyer) spoke plainly of a 
dairy country; but we glanced around in vain for 
sight of " the maiden all forlorn," or of the blithe milk- 
maid in French heels made familiar by opera bouft'e. 
Louisa's attention, however, was attracted by a little 
heifer not inappropriately creamy colored. 

" You're just too lovely for anything," she called 
to it. "For all the world like Evangeline's;" but 
the lovely one fed voraciously and heeded her not. 

Our fellow-passengers were nearly all of the rural 
type. The spruce-looking excursionists from the city 
that we had observed in the Willow Grove car, now 
gave way to Darby and Joan or Jack and Jill. At the 
roadside station waited Reuben, swathed in his linen 
duster and holding stiffly a carpet bag, relic of happier 
days. 

Along the highway, however, were scattered many 
more substantial reminders of the past than Reuben's 
rag bag. Such, indeed, were our reflections as we 
pulled up in the little hamlet of Horsham, which is all 
antiquity from the trolley waiting-room, " shagged 
with horrid shades," to the Quaker meeting-house prim 
to starchiness. Louisa's crowning delight, however, 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 25 

was the frequency of old-time inns, to which despite 
their shabby, if not dilapidated, conditions, the broad 
verandas gave an air of hospitality essentially colonial. 
On the way out of Horsham we sighted in the dis- 
tance one of these ancient taverns, distinguished by a 
high balcony that promised at first marked dramatic 
possibilities for some rural Romeo and Juliet; but as 
we came nearer, the romantic atmosphere was dispelled 
by an array of gaudy yellow signs that chronicled small 
beer. Though these old inns and other structures by 
the wayside have a history, yet to the manifest disap- 
pointment of Louisa there was a lamentable dearth of 
Washington's headquarters, places that history had 
scattered along other portions of our route, and notably 
in New England, with reckless profusion. Did Wash- 
ington blunder ? 

The odd signs and names by the roadside proved a 
frequent source of amusement. Near Horsham, where 
the conductor jumped off to turn the lever of the 
signal box, our attention was directed to a barking 
cur. At first we could not understand the reason of 
his emotion. He seemed to be barking doggedly, one 
might say, into space without any special object in 
view; but glancing again we beheld just in front of 
the beast a projecting sign that announced " Snapper 
and Barker." Thus a dog's bark can express the finer 
shades of feeling. 

It was near the same spot that my reckless kodakery 
received a stinging rebuke. By the side of the trolley 
track was a dingy, frame house, in the open door of 
which stood a venerable negress with a red bandanna 
kerchief on her head and five or six pickaninnies frisk- 



26 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



ing about her. In an instant the snap-shot demon was 
at my elbow and I levelled Killdeer at the dusky picture 
of domestic life; but fancy my chagrin when Honey, 
divining my intention, fled inside with all her lesser 
Honeys and slammed the door in Killdeer's face. It 
was not strange, therefore, that the negative, on coming 
out of the developing machine a week later, should 




IN DOYLESTOWN 



wear a blank expression which recorded sympathet- 
ically my own feelings. 

Killdeer, howe^•er, soon found other game. The 
hillside crofts near Doylestown and the glimpse of its 
roofs and chimneys nestled among the trees made a 
picture not to be forgotten. Rye and wheat fields 
stood out in pleasing relief against the background of 
green, while over all a summer's cloud threw shifting 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON ' 27 

lights and shadows. Following the winding road, we 
crossed a low stone bridge and passing an ancient mill 
dashed on to the town a short distance beyond. 

" Do they have ice cream in Doylestown? " queried 
one anxious passenger of the conductor, when we were 
climbing the hill. 

" Yes — and a jail, too," was the comprehensive 
retort. At the covert rebuke the man, who wanted to 
know, relapsed into a masterly silence. The promi- 
nence, indeed, of the jail in the geography of the town 
amply justified the conductor in his Reproof Valiant. 
It was the first striking object we saw when we rode 
into town, and the last thing upon which we feasted 
our eyes as we rode out. 

Our flyer made a brief stop at the trolley crossing; 
and then grappling nervously our Protean baggage we 
clambered from the four-wheeler and tottered to the 
Newtown car close by, while its occupants watched our 
painful progress with ill-concealed merriment. We 
had hardly settled ourselves, our belongings piled high 
about us, before the car, a dingy, ancient-looking con- 
veyance, was lumbering away towards Bristol. 

Our route still lay through a prosperous farming 
countrv; and in some cases the track took a short cut 
through the farms themselves, where the company had 
acquired the exclusive right of way. As our car splut- 
tered along, it dodged a farm house here and a barn 
there, while the clanging of its gong and the rattle of 
its wheels more than once rudely interrupted the stately 
promenade of Chanticleer and his dames. The cold 
look in Chanticleer's eye told plainly enough his hos- 
tility to the invading trolley. 



2S A TEOLLEY HONEYMOON 

As was natural, the Man with the Hoe was a com- 
mon figure in the roadside scenes of Bucks, through 
which we were now passing; but he bore no resem- 
blance to the gaunt creation of the poet's fancy. Far 
from it, for he was the very picture of health and 
happiness. 

Our fellow-trippers, too. were generally of the same 




THE JAIL, DOYLESTOWN 

hardy type. Indeed, the only exceptions were two pale- 
faced, smooth-shaven men, whose attire and theatrical 
air cried aloud of the Eighth street Rialto. They 
held gingerly between them a ludicrously large mega- 
phone — an instrument that seemed strangely out of 
place in the rural quietude. Louisa's curiosity was 
doubled when the twain got off at a lonely crossroads 
where the only sign of activity was a duck half asleep 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 29 

in a stagnant pool. The last we saw of them, they were 
still waiting by the roadside, clutching their burden 
with grim persistency. As they lingered considerately 
in the glaring sunlight, I snapped Killdeer at them, 
but the shot went wide of the mark, catching only a 
few tree-tops. Ever since that time, however, they have 
haunted our fancy. For what are the charms that two 
vaudeville " artists " with a colossal megaphone could 
find in the face of Solitude ? To hold communion with 
Nature ? 

There were two others of our companions to whom, 
Louisa declares, Killdeer and I owe an unqualified 
apology. They were a country bumpkin and his rosy- 
cheeked Thestylis — deep in a romance which had pro- 
gressed far enough to sanction the interchange of 
chewing gum in public. As this jugglery was suc- 
cessively repeated, the lurking snap-shot demon within 
me was aroused; and, hardly realizing what I did, I 
raised Killdeer and gave the lever a vicious push. I 
caught the gum in transit, but at what moral sacrifice. 
From that fatal moment I felt myself in the relentless 
grasp of a habit that respected neither time nor place; 
that spared neither the sanctity of the home nor love's 
young dream. I had become a kodak fiend, abhorred 
by gods and men. 

Even the wayside animals seemed to look upon Kill- 
deer with squint-eyed suspicion. During a stop near 
a paint-bleached wooden building, the village post- 
office, Louisa called my attention to a fat pug dog 
waddling about, an expression of utter world weari- 
ness stamped upon his wide-open countenance. It took 
only a second to crane my neck and seize my kodak; 



30 A TEOLLEY HONEYMOON 

yet before I had made the first motion, the indignant 
pug divined my intention and popped suddenly around 
a corner. Thus, as we learned, pifg dogs and negresses 
with bandanna kerchiefs have in common an aversion 
to kodakery, though what the hidden law may be that 
connects the two cases, it is for the psychologist to 
unravel. 

Our car made but few stops on the way to Newtown. 
This preponderance of through traffic contributes much 
to the pleasure of rural trolleying. By the same token 
the lot of the rural conductor is far happier than that 
of his urban brother, whose life might be called a con- 
tinuous hop, skip and jump up and down a running 
board. What is more, he is on a much better footing, 
too, with the passengers, many of them being his neigh- 
bors with whom he freely exchanges cheery, if clumsy, 
compliments seasoned with enquiries about the crops. 
A sign over a small store at Wycombe Park, reading 
" Ice cream Parlor and Soft Drinks," bore a legend 
that soon became a familiar landmark. For every- 
where along the route, in town or country, by lake or 
fen, near park or blasted heath, could be seen the 
sticky, sinuous trail of the Ice Cream Dragon ; and by 
his benignant decree any weather-beaten shack com- 
modious enough to hold one plate and two spoons was 
officially entitled a " parlor." These parlors, indeed, 
flourish like green bay trees and apparently are under 
the special protection of the goddess Indigestion, to 
whom Quick Lunch Temples are sacred. 

Recreation parks, also. — we were bewildered at their 
frequency. Scarcely a large town we trolleyed through 
that did not have its amusement grove where flaring 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 31 

advertisements heralded a feast of " refined vaude- 
ville," and not infrequently a flow of liquid cheer. 
What was strangest, it was notably in puritan New 
England where the passion for " refined vaudeville " 
raged most fiercely. 

Louisa had undertaken to record in her note book a 
description, though necessarily brief, of the villages 
along our route; but the sleepy atmosphere made the 
recording angel drowsy on the way to Newtown, so that 
by the time we rattled into that little Quaker village, 
she was nodding " with a short, uneasy motion." Even 
Homer, however, would have nodded that hot noontide. 

As it was, her dazed recollections of Newtown include 
a venerable peddler trundling a baby carriage filled with 
peanuts through the quiet street; and (though not a 
correlated fact) a large sign on a barn, as we turned a 
sharp corner, that read " The Home of Altheus, Son 
of Omma, the Greatest Sire Living or Dead." Penn 
named the town; and over it the influence of his placid 
spirit still reigns. 

Not even Dickens' fat boy would have fallen asleep 
in the flyer to which we now changed for Bristol. For 
it was equipped with a lusty horn, the chirpy toot of 
which awakened both hillsmen and dalesmen like a 
blast from Robin Hood's bugle, as we rode up hill and 
down. We listened to its echoes with fascinated ears; 
and 

still the wonder grew 
that one small horn could carry all it blew. 

Our course was now towards the Delaware. At 
Langhorne the track stretched away down a vista of 



32 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



arched trees; and crossing a trestle we caught another 
view of the Neshaminy, which we had seen for the first 
time on our ride to Doylestown. We were now well 
out of the hills; and indeed as we neared Hulmeville, 
the country became as flat as a pancake on Shrove 
Tuesday. 

An exhilarating trolley ride is the best sauce. "I'm 




BY THE ROADSIDE, HULMEVILLE 



as hungry as a bear." confessed Louisa, on alighting 
from the car at Bristol, if indeed travelers staggering 
under our weight of baggage could be said to " alight." 
We entered a hostelry only to be informed by the host 
in a tone of reproach that dinner wasn't served after 
two. Thus belated hunger hath few privileges in Bris- 
tol, saving the presence of the never-failing " ice cream 
parlor." One of these retreats Louisa spied, as we were 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 33 

trudging up the ramblitig main street, bag and bag- 
gage; and there on Bristol-made ambrosia we tried to 
appease two very human appetites. 

In the Httle shop we held our first council. We had 
expected to cross to Burlington by ferry and take the 
Jersey route to Trenton; but disquieting rumors now 
reached us of the prevalence of smallpox in Borden- 
town and of the enforcement of a quarantine against 
all travelers passing through the plague spot, as we 
should be compelled to do, if we went by way of Bur- 
lington. The idea of a quarantine did not appeal to 
Louisa. 

" Fumigated, smoked like hams," she protested. 
" Why, our clothes will all be ruined," she added, her 
eyes as big as saucers at the threatened cataclysm. 

" Perhaps, they may only spray us — that's the latest 
wrinkle, I understand," I essayed to break the blow. 

''' Sprayed, the idea," she returned. " Wouldn't we 
be sights. A bride and bridegroom at that." 

" We're sights anyway," I rejoined, pointing rue- 
fully to our mountain of coats and grips that towered 
from two chairs in the corner of the room. " It would 
take a week to fumigate that heap." 

The result of the conference was that we decided for 
the west side route via Morrisville. We had hardly 
seated ourselves, however, in the Morrisville car before 
we began tO' doubt the wisdom of our decision. The 
conveyance was a closed four-wheeler, dingy-looking' 
without and stutfy within: and its occupants were 
shabby and unkempt. In one corner, with his feet 
planted on a soiled paper bundle that resembled Alfred 
Jingle's, slouched a man in stertorous slumber. 

3 



34 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

Sprawled in front of us, a shock-headed, sullen-faced 
foreigner, as we judged, was pouring over a socialistic 
paper, glancing at us occasionally over the top of the 
sheet. The glance became a glare when it fell upon 
our generous supply of coats and plainly spoke his 
belief that we had more than our share. Evidently 
he did not agree with Carlyle, that a man's share of 
the goods of this world is all he can carry without get- 
ting into the hulks. 

The river view, however, soon diverted our attention 
from the socialist; and going to the rear platform I 
snapped Killdeer recklessly at the Delaware, which 
flowed sluggishly by, indifferent to the volley. That 
indifference proved well-founded, for its best friends 
couldn't have recognized it in my " moving " pictures. 
It was all the sun's fault, however, which was every- 
where that afternoon except where it ought to have 
been. My friends had religiously impressed upon me 
that I must be careful, when shooting, " not to get a 
move on the kodak." This injunction seemed to me 
the refinement of irony, as I clutched Killdeer in one 
hand, while with the other I clung desperately to the 
handrail of the platform, which was bobbing up and 
down like Tracy Tupman on his balky beast of blessed 
memory. For our little flyer made up in speed what 
it lacked in appearance; and the plains and wayside 
maples, Tullytown, Penn Valley — all flopped madly 
by like a ghost at matin hour. 

Morrisville we found buried in an all-pervading 
stupor, ostensibly its normal condition. This little 
hamlet boasts a trolley line to Trenton, which lies just 
across the river. That afternoon, however, no cars 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 35 

were running, though the track was still visible to the 
naked eye. Dropping into a corner store, we learned 
that the slender equipment of the company compelled 
it to suspend operations when, as often happened, the 
car needed repairing. As ill luck would have it, we had 
stumbled into town on Repair Day; and consequently 
no trolley was running. Indeed, the village pessimist 




THE CANAL AT TRENTON 

informed us that it might be a month before we could 
get a car for Trenton. So long a wait hardly fell in 
with our plans; and accordingly making a virtue of 
necessity, off we started to tramp into Trenton over 
the bridge. 

" How odd for a wedding journey," exclaimed 
Louisa, as she tripped ahead with Killdeer and Nich- 
olas, while I brought up the rear with our baggage 
train. 



36 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

" How delightfully historical this is — crossing the 
Delaware just like Washington," she added. 

'" // we ever get across," I protested, emerging from 
my mass of baggage to pick up the impish umbrella, 
which had taken advantage of my helplessness to drop 
into the dusty roadway. 

At the ticket office the burly keeper exacted a modest 
penny tribute from Nicholas. Here we were overtaken 
by a fellow-passenger in the Bristol car, the sleepy man 
with the disreputable-looking bundle. We remembered 
how on disembarking he had forgotten to take his 
baggage, and indeed would have gone off without it, 
had not a lusty halloa from the conductor recalled him. 
We were not surprised, therefore, to hear him hailed 
now by the bridge guard, who admonished him to pro- 
cure a ticket before crossing. The fee paid, off the 
forgetful man trudged again, when there was another 
stentorian shout from the guard ; and then we saw 
that the man had forgotten his shabby bundle a second 
time. Smiling sheepishly, he picked up his belongings 
and slouched on ; but his troubles were not at an end, 
for at the Trenton end of the bridge he forgot to give 
up his ticket and was roundly reprimanded by the 
official at the gate. Having thrown the proper sop to 
Cerberus, he passed on again, still smiling like a mem- 
ber of the Sunshine Society. The last we saw of him 
he was tramping wearily in the direction of the pottery 
works, the suspicious-looking bundle resting loosely 
under his arm, as if it were likely any moment to slide 
down to the pavement. Louisa wonders whether it 
ever reached its destination, if indeed it ever had any. 

Trenton marked the end of our second day's trip. 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 37 

With becoming reverence we craned our necks before 
the towering battle monument, now doubly memorable 
since the Princeton students essayed to give it the color 
of the shamrock; and then we recrossed the canal just 
in time to catch a glimpse of the Admiral Dewey, 
sweeping proudly down the " melancholy main " in 
tow of a patient-looking mule. Our final pilgrimage 
was to the State house, where Louisa enjoyed the 
honor of sitting for one brief second in the governor's 
chair — an act of usurpation that, we hope. Governor 
Murphy will graciously condone. 



CHAPTER III. ^ 

Misadventures in Jersey. 

Perhaps I did wrong to speak so hastily about the 
vag-aries of my umbrella. It certainly did yeoman serv- 
ice that rainy morning we left Trenton for New York. 
The rain was coming down in torrents when we climbed 
into the open single truck that runs to the Fair 
Grounds, where connection is made for New Bruns- 
wick. A short dash, however, to the rain-soaked 
suburbs and we found waiting the New Brunswick 
express. The change to a closed coach, commodious 
as a steam railway carriage, was as pleasant as it was 
unexpected. The car w-as one of the regular winter 
service with a forward compartment for baggage. The 
conductor played many parts from ticket puncher to 
baggage smasher; and when we dove into the car, 
there he was cheerily polishing the brass strip on a seat 
top with all the historic painstaking of Sir Joseph 
Porter, K. C. B. Naturally sociable, he imparted much 
pertinent, as well as entertaining, information along 
the route; for all told he had but three passengers to 
occupy his attention. The third fare, a hatchet-faced 
woman, slept soundly during the trip, her head sagging 
heavily to one side, while a black chip hat reposed sym- 
pathetically on the tip of her ear. 

The rain beat furiously against the window panes, 
as the flyer whizzed past the swamps and sodden fields. 

38 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 39 

We could easily imagine the dismal treble, precursor 
of blood, that rises on an August night over these 
breeding places of the Jersey man-eater. The whole 
prospect, in fact, might be described as dolorous; 
though in such a cloudburst even the Elysian Fields 
would have looked waste and wild. 

" No shooting to-day," I said disconsolately to 
Louisa, as I stowed Killdeer away in a corner. 

" There's fine shooting over the way, and fishing, 
too," volunteered the conductor. "' Near Patrick's 
Crossing," he added, indicating with a wide sweep of 
his hand a black, rain-swept horizon to the right; and 
his earnest expression demonstrated his firm belief that 
we could make no mistake in dropping off for a day's 
sport with rod and gun. Louisa turned a horrified look 
on him, while I added darkly that I couldn't shoot any- 
thing, unless it stood in the sunlight within the ten- 
foot dead line. 

When we dashed into New Brunswick, the storm 
was still raging and the wind and rain were sweeping 
furiously through the streets. We were compelled to 
take refuge in the trolley waiting-room, through the 
splotched window pane of which we peered into the 
drizzle for a sight of the Bound Brook car. At last it 
came trundling round a corner, its slazy rain-soaked 
curtains offering but a flimsy protection from the ele- 
ments. Our courage failed us. 

" I wouldn't go in that tub without a life-preserver," 
insisted Louisa, looking like Niobe in her dripping 
Mackintosh (assuming of course that Niobe would 
have worn a weeping-proof) ; and to emphasize her 
ultimatum she brandished Nicholas so violently that 



4;0 



A TEOLLEY HONEYMOON 



he lost his head and a score of nickels were scattered in 
a jingling chorus upon the floor. Life-preservers, how- 
ever, were about the only necessity we had neglected 
to put in our baggage equipment. As it was, there- 
fore, we decided to wait over until the weather bureau 
regained its mental balance and turned off the deluge. 
Happily it had a lucid interval the very next morn- 




A PICNIC PARTY, NEW BRUNSWICK 



ing; and taking the day by the forelock we were soon 
trolleying across the stone bridge over the Raritan, 
glancing back at the roofs of New Brunswick on the 
hill to the west of us. Above the trees by the river's 
bank towered the stone arches of the new railroad 
bridge. Our course wound along the river, the placid 
surface of which o-httered like a mirror, while a broad 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 41 

sweep of cultivated fields bounded our vision to the 
right. Brindle, Sukey and Mooley, with their plead- 
ing eyes, became familiar figures in the pastoral scenes; 
and at their rugged architecture we began to cast the 
cold, critical glances of experts, as we now deemed our- 
selves to be since our trip through Bucks. To Louisa's 
ears, however, the Jersey moo expressed a wider emo- 
tional range and spoke a more varied language than 
the neat's tongue of Bucks. 

As we turned our backs on the Raritan and headed 
for Bound Brook, a little comedy was enacted aboard 
our car. in which we took an involuntary part. A 
ruddy-cheeked man with a brisk manner and clothes 
of a modish cut, who had been puffing a cigar on the 
front platform, came pattering down the aisle, anx- 
iously scrutinizing each seat. He eyed us with embar- 
rassing keenness; nor did we get an inkling of the 
dramatic situation until we heard an explosive inquiry 
from the conductor : "Anybody seen this man's grip ? " 

The question was followed by a general silence. 
" Perhaps it's under that stack of clothing there," broke 
in the red-faced, indicating our coats and wraps, which 
promiscuously piled together were spread on a seat in 
front of us. 

" We've grips of our own without adding to the 
collection," I protested firmly. " But see for yourself," 
I continued; and suiting the action to the word, I dug 
strenuously into the mountain of coats, dislodging of 
course in the process the troublesome umbrella, the 
handle of which had hooked itself in a grip strap. 

"There it is," cried the man; and sure enough, 
much to my dismay, I saw the missing bag deeply 



42 A TFOLLEY HONEYMOON 

buried under the coats with every outward evidence of 
criminal intent. The owner ignored our embarrassed 
explanation, but expansive joy was pictured on his 
countenance, wdien retiring to the rear platform he 
hastily snapped open the bag, disclosing to the curious 
gaze of the passengers a box of cigars and a bottle of 
rye. A general titter went around the car as he held 
the bottle up critically, as if to intimate that its con- 
tents had been tampered with. 




RURAL TROLLEY STATION, DUNELLEN 

" I felt as if I should fly," said Louisa afterwards in 
speaking of the trying moment. 

" Not with all that baggage," I interposed mildly. 
" A Santos Dumont or Langley couldn't have done 
that." She declined, however, to reveal her secret of 
aerial navis^ation. 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 43 

When we changed cars at Bound Brook, we saw the 
owner of the grip standing in front of the trolley sta- 
tion, still holding the bottle with a true Kentucky 
caress. The picture was vividly present in our minds, 
as we rode on to Dunellen ; and for that reason doubt- 
less we exercised more caution than before in stowing 
away our baggage. 

Though the river was now lost to view, yet by way 
of compensation the green walls of the Watchung rose 
in the distance across the plains. Indeed, as we trol- 
leyed on, the wide reach of level fields with background 
of mountains became the distinguishing feature of the 
scenery. 

Our fellow-passengers on the Dunellen car were a 
medley indeed. On the rear seats sprawled a group of 
men in grimy canvas suits, and nestling at their feet 
was a generous supply of picks and crowbars. Seated 
among them was a lean, bewhiskered farmer, bereft of 
collar and tie, who kept cracking hard-shelled jokes 
with the conductor. Near us in the centre seat sat a 
Tennj^sonian young lady, rapt in the Idylls of the King, 
while at her elbow was a fat negress, whose watery 
eyes and paroxysm of sneezing testified to the ravages 
of hay fever. All the front seats, however, had been 
pre-empted by a merry trolley party (the first we had 
met on our trip), a group of women hatless and radiant 
in white shirtwaists, who chattered vivaciously over a 
hand-to-hand feast of caramels. They changed with 
us into the Plainfield car at the station in the outskirts 
of Dunellen village. 

Nothing along the road escaped the attention of 
Ihese cheery trolley trippers; and their witty comments 



44 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



on passing scenes did much to enliven our journey to 
Plainfield. At one village corner the sight of a little 
tot sliding down a steep pair of steps w^ith the naive 
abandon of youth and clasping affectionately a flower- 
bedecked doll larger than she was, awakened general 
merriment; and at another stop a tiny Maltese kitten 
rolling in the sun under a window emblazoned with the 
announcement of " Charlie Moon's Laundrv " amused 




A NEWARK SCENE 



us all with its acrobatic pranks. It was promptly 
christened by the trolley party " Fudge " and " Moon- 
shine." 

" Fudge," however, was soon forgotten as we sped 
on through Westfield and the adjoining countryside, 
which was now unrolled before us in a panorama of 
vivid green. 

We met with a brief delav in Elizabeth, where a 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 45 

chauffeurless automobile running wild cat effectually 
blocked our passage. I took advantage of the stop to 
snap at the first object within range, which proved to 
be a butcher boy on his wagon. In an instant, how- 
ever, the lad, scenting danger, popped out of his seat 
with monkey-like agility, wdiile I heard a muffled 
expression in a tone vibrant with feeling, " Never 
touched me; " but before he had slipped to the ground, 
Killdeer snapped him ruthlessly in the back. This 
monkey-like boy was the only evidence we saw of over- 
developed activity in Elizabeth's streets. 

As we continued our journey, the character of way- 
side scenes rapidly changed; and by the time we had 
trundled into Newark, the transformation was com- 
plete. In its broad streets and bustling trolley centre 
were many signs of our proximity to the metropolis, 
the sky scrapers of which were only ten miles away. 
The calm deliberation of rural trolleying now began to 
give way to the speed and rush mania. We caught at 
once the infectious spirit. 

" Hurry, if you want to get that car," suddenly 
exclaimed Louisa, as we stood in the midst of a crowd 
on the curb. 

" Hurry," I repeated, as the mad joy of battle began 
to thrill my nerves. Juggling our baggage in both 
arms, we dove through the throng and tore along the 
trolley track to hail a car for Jersey City that had 
already passed us. I dodged just in time a woman of 
Falstaffian girth who waddled directly across my path ; 
then more juggling and sprinting in the blazing sun 
and victory was ours. Hardly, however, had we seated 
ourselves before I discovered that during the pursuit 



46 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

my umbrella had slyly dropped into the street. You 
may be sure that we wasted no tears over the loss; 
but I am sorry for the unsuspecting Newarker (unless 
it was the fat woman), who found the little imp and 
introduced it doubtless into some happy home. 

A short ride through the outskirts of the city brought 
us to the turnpike. The blocks of factory buildings and 
a skv-line rich in chimnev stacks and streaked with 




NEAR JERSEY CITY 

black smoke, attested Newark's remarkable industrial 
growth. We followed the turnpike to Jersey City — a 
jumbled association of marshy fiats and inlets; dense 
jungles of railroad tracks; unspeakable fertilizing 
plants; and last a dash through unsightly suburbs. It 
was only a little after one when we turned into the 
car barn hard by the ferry house. Hardly a minute 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 47 

later we were pushing and elbowing our way through 
a motley rabble of swarthy-faced immigrants, who 
stood in helpless stupidity around the train gates. The 
men were loaded with shovels and pickaxes, while 
almost every woman in the horde carried a baby in her 
arms. We broke through the jabbering throng and 
catching the prevailing spirit of desperate hurry we 
scurried towards the Twenty-third street slip. 

As the ferry-boat churned its way up the North 
river, we looked expectantly for a new assortment of 
dents in the rugged sky-line of the city, where in 
bewildering irregularity the sky-scrapers reared their 
awful forms. Nor did we look in vain, for New York 
is ever rising Phoenix-like (a modern up-to-date 
Phoenix, of course) from the ashes and scrap-iron of 
its demolished structures. It is not the same city one 
saw but a few weeks ago. Yet never before had the 
tearing-up mania seemed so acute and widespread as 
it did that afternoon, when we plunged into town from 
the trolley trip through bucolic Jersey. Many old land- 
marks were gone; here a skyscraper had been pulled 
down to make way for another skyscraper of double 
the height; there in upper Broadway were abyssmal 
excavations marking the progress of the subway; and 
opposite many new holes in the building line huge 
piles of steel girders were lying along the curb. 

In spite, however, of the law of restless change that 
marks " the metrolopus," two things, so it seemed to 
us, are always omnipresent — the saturnalia of noise 
and the odor of escaping gas. The latter Louisa 
detected at once with a disapproving sniff. For the 
taste is strictly an acquired one, though to the old New 



48 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



Yorker a whiff of leaking gas (as one can readily 
understand) is like a puff from Araby the Blest, asso- 
ciated as it is with his most enduring memories of the 
Island. 

The intensity of life in New York imbues with 
something of its spirit even the sight-seeing stranger 
within its gates; and the tourist service of coach, 
yacht and automobile that is now one of the spectacu- 




FIFTH AVENUE IN SUMMER 



lar features of the city, may be regarded as another 
tribute to the metropolitan rush mania. 

The story of the American traveler, who. bursting 
breathlessly into St. Marks, breezily bade the guide 
show him " the whole outfit in five minutes," finds a 
counterpart in the wish of a hurricane tourist we met 
on Riverside Drive. While the electric 'bus was wait- 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



49 



ing in front of Grant's Tomb, a bustling woman, guide- 
book in liand, flew down the long steps and signalled 
the chauffeur for a parley. In a tone that took us all 
into her confidence, she made known her wish for a 
ride down Riverside, a dash through Central Park, a 
scurry up the whole length of Fifth avenue and back 
again (with a hasty peep, of course, into the Cathedral 
and the Little Church Around the Corner), and last 




HERALD SQUARE 



but not least a hurry-up pilgrimage down the tangled 
woodland of the Bowery — all this to be done in half 
an hour, for she must, she insisted (the emphasis on 
the must was eloquence itself) catch the five o'clock 
boat for Coney Island. Nor could anyone convince 
her that her plan contemplated a ride wilder than John 
Gilpin's; and when we rode away, she was searching 

4 



50 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

for another chauffeur to whom to broach her cyclonic 
idea. 

Early as it was in the summer season, we found 
tourists everywhere; around the wind-blown Flat Iron, 
amid the venerable grave-stones of Trinity church 
yard, in the maelstrom at Brooklyn bridge, peering into 
the subway at Longacre, and shot from the helter- 
skelter at Luna Park. 




CATHEDRAL HEIGHTS, MANHATTAN 

As the time drew near to continue our trip, we dis- 
cussed in the baleful light of experience the pressing 
necessity of reducing our baggage list. This course 
was hurried, also, by a humiliating adventure. For as 
I was tramping along Twenty-third street, staggering 
under my burden of superfluous coats, I had been 
approached by a policeman, who in a Manhattanized 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 51 

brogue had questioned me solicitously about my owner- 
ship of the chattels. Though I succeeded in quieting 
his suspicions, yet the sting of mortification had 
remained. 

Our travelling equipment, as finally settled upon, 
comprised the following : 

I. Two grips (i2x6). 
IL Two medium -weight coats (with Nicholas 

and divers guide-books in the pockets.) 
in. Killdeer and ammunition. 
IV. Positively no umbrella. 

All other baggage was forwarded by express to the 
transfer point where we had planned to break our 
journey. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A Swarm of Excursionists. 

It was Fat Woman's Day when we trolleyecl out of 
Manhattan Borough. At Elarlem River the picnic face 
and the lunch-box were early abroad; and under the 
L tracks at One Hundred and Twentv-ninth street we 




BRIDGE AT HARLEM RIVER 



encountered a horde of trolley excursionists with Teu- 
tonic faces and aggressively American feet and elbows. 
As the Mount Vernon car swung around the loop, 
Louisa and I flung ourselves into the whirlwind; and 

53 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 53 

when our struggle was over, we found ourselves 
wedged in on a front seat amid a press of fat women 
and chattering angel children. 

As we rode over the drawbridge and on through the 
Bronx, more fat women and more angel babies crowded 
into the car at every stop. At the last invasion a 
dumpy, little German woman, holding in ludicrous 
contrast a huge picnic hamper, cried out in protest, 
" There bees no room for dose in alretty " — a senti- 
ment that paradoxical though it was, we echoed heart- 
ily. Through the profusion of fatling hands and toy 
tin pails that surrounded me, I trained Killdeer upon 
wayside " subjects." though necessarily at weird angles 
and grotesque focus. Once the side rail of the car 
mocked my snap at Fordham; and soon "afterwards, 
when I had just coaxed a Williamsbridge scene within 
the ten-foot line, the inquisitive fist of a cherubic baby 
planted itself squarely in the kodak's only eye. 

Even under such unfavorable conditions we could 
see abundant evidence of the Bronx's rapid growth. 
Here, indeed, is a strange medley of city and country. 
The deafening roar of Manhattan's streets dies away 
in the rural calm of the upper Bronx — a calm, how- 
ever, that just precedes the coming storm of improve- 
ment. A few months more and in yon field, where 
Reuben is bending over to stay the ravages of the 
potato bug, a brick flat with conspicuous fire escape, 
or perhaps a corner saloon with flamboyant sign, will 
proclaim itself the pioneer of metropolitan progress. 

As we neared the station at Mount Vernon (just 
beyond the city limits) we saw a surging sea of arms 
and faces. Louisa's first thought was that a riot was 



54 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

in progress or a fashionable wedding with the con- 
ventional mob of curiosity seekers; but in another 
moment we grasped the situation ( or rather zuere 
grasped by the situation) when our car pulled up in 
the thick of a struggling mass of excursionists. As 
it proved, they were making a concerted rush for the 
New Rochelle trolley with which the car from New 
York connected. Indeed, hardly had our crowded 
Juggernaut stopped, before our fellow—passengers, led 
by the frait of the mammoth picnic basket, boldly pre- 
cipitated themselves into the struggle. Their example 
was contagious and at once there arose within me a 
barbaric desire to mingle in the fray and trample my 
fellow-men in the dust. We joined in the rush, only 
to be caught in the counter currents of elbows and 
lunch boxes; and then Mount Vernon grew giddy 
before our eyes. 

I rescued Louisa at last, and from the vantage- point 
of the trolley waiting-room we watched the scene with 
anxious interest. The rush had diminished a little; 
but along a labyrinth of overhead wires shouting 
motormen were hurriedly shifting their poles, charg- 
ing down alike upon the just and unjust. 

" I'm no dog," vociferated a tall, thin man, white 
with rage at being ordered about like a Siberian 
convict. 

"Well, what do you want?" sneered Ivan the 
Trolley Terrible; and the challenging look on the 
burly motorman's face indicated his personal prefer- 
ence for fisticuffs. 

The chance of getting even standing room in the 
New Rochelle car seemed so remote that we debated 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 55 

the suggestion of going by steam cars as far as Port- 
chester. For every time the httle four-wheeler shot in 
sight, men, women and children made an onslaught 
that crowded it from platform to platform, while the 
number of waiting excursionists was augmented with 
the arrival of every car from the Harlem. Never was 
the law of demand and supply more grossly insulted. 

After an hour's delay, however, fortune favored us. 
We were crossing the square towards the railroad sta- 
tion, when Louisa's sharp eyes spied two vacant seats 
in a Juggernaut that was just about to start. With 
desperate haste we flung ourselves aboard. Pinned in 
though we were among the baskets and boxes of a Glen 
Island picnic party, we breathed a sigh of relief as the 
signal was given and the little bobtail speedily made 
a sharp turn to the left, heading New Rochelleward. 
Hardly, however, had we come out on the Old Post 
Road before a horrible suspicion flamed up in Louisa's 
mind that we were going in the wrong direction. 

" Is this the New Rochelle car? " I asked anxiously 
of the conductor, while I began to shake out two fares 
from the long head of Nicholas. 

" 'Tain't my fault," snarled back the tyrant, clutch- 
ing the coins in his money-stained palm ; and up went 
his hand savagely to the indicator cord. Thus, with- 
out waiting to investigate, he had diagnosed my ques- 
tion as a complaint — such was the force of habit. It 
chanced that I was holding Killdeer in one hand and 
before the man had let go the cord I snapped the kodak 
unconsciously at him. The developed film, however, 
afterwards revealed nothing but a fist, huge, shadowy, 
protruding mysteriously into space. 



56 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



Nevertheless the sight of Killdeer brought a civil 
answer to the conductor's tongue; and the next time I 
interrogated him he promptly relieved my doubts about 
the destination of the car. 

It is fair to say, however, that " 'Tain't my fault " 
was the only insolent conductor we met in all the five 
hundred miles of our trip; and even for him Louisa 
makes the extenuating plea that daily contact with the 




THAT FIST 



picnic mobs of Mount Vernon would have worn the 
patience of Job himself. 

Twenty minutes of trolleying brought us into the 
prim little city of New Rochelle, where we made 
another change. 

Through its brick-paved highways we made only a 
hurried pilgrimage; and though Louisa took good 
care to impress upon my mind the Huguenot origin 
of the place, we saw no outward signs of it, except 
perhaps the words " French Boarding House " painted 
upon a large plank in front of an imposing colonial 
residence. 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 57 

The sun had come out broihng hot, so that we were 
heartily glad to be seated once more in an open trolley 
car and to go scudding along in the teeth of the speed- 
generated breeze. We were still attended, however, 
by knots of excursionists, most of them bound for 
nearby beaches along the Sound. 

While we were speeding through Mamaroneck and 
Rye, Louisa was deep in the guide-books, and fre- 
quently reminded me that we were now on historic 
ground. For up these Westchester hills marched the 
valiant Howe, and then marched down again — " nobly 
done and wisely, too." To us, however, no red coats 
were visible save the toiling golfer; no note of destruc- 
tion audible save the chauffeur's horn. 

Historical associations deepen as one crosses the 
State line and trolleys along the Connecticut shore. 
Near Greenwich I had urged Louisa to keep a sharp 
lookout for the rock where General Putnam, when pur- 
sued by the redcoats, made the dare-devil leap 
recounted in history. 

" That looks like it," burst suddenly from her lips, 
while she indicated vaguely a steep ledge with a dra- 
matic flourish of her guide-book. 

"Where? Where?" I asked excitedly. "I must 
get a good picture of that." Then steadying myself 
against the side rail of the rocking car, I prepared to 
take aim with all the impressive deliberation of a pro- 
fessional doing time-exposure. 

"Mommer! Mommer! " cried a thin, piping voice 
behind me. " Look at that funny, little man. He's 
taking pictures with a great big pencil." 

Glancing down, I realized to my chagrin that absent- 



58 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

mindedly I had poised in my hand not Ivilldeer, but 
the long, green back of Nicholas Nickleby. There was 
a sudden lurch of the flyer; and like a flash (he had 
been waiting for the chance) old Nick shot from my 
hand and lodged in the road near the track. A hasty 
signal to stop; and scrambling out of our seats we 
trudged back to recover our lost treasure, while the 
car whizzed on to Old Ledge Road. Our journey thus 
unexpectedly broken. \\e decided not to take the next 
car on, but stroll leisurely back to Indian Harbor, a 
sightly bay filled with fishing craft, where the east- 
bound trolley tripper catches his first glimpse of the 
Sound. 

Indeed, the whole countryside from Greenwich on, 
with its attractive villas set among tidy lawns and 
statelv trees, is one to be remembered. Smart traps 
and puffy automobiles became frequent objects on the 
road. One touring car flew gleefully past us to the 
challenging notes of the automatic horn, only to be 
overtaken in a crippled condition when we resumed 
our journey not long afterwards. As we saw the 
begoggled chauffeur down on his hands and knees, 
peering anxiously into the machine's " midst," we 
reflected that he travels the fastest — who gets to his 
destination. 

It w^s concert night when we rode into Stamford 
Center. The main street was alive with chattering 
promenaders, while from the bandstand in the spacious 
square the strains of "Another New Coon in Town " 
hailed our belated advent. As we alighted from the 
car, it seemed to us as if all Stamford were afoot. 
Threading our way through the press, however, as best 



A TROLLEY IIONEYMOOX 



59 



we could, we enquired for a hotel; but in the minds of 
all we interrogated, there seemed to lurk the gravest 
doubts about the identity of the best one. Accordingly, 
we had to trust to outside appearance; and, as was to 
be expected, Louisa chose the hostelry with colonial 
pillars. Nor did we have reason to regret our choice, 
though we could not convince our host that we were 
in earnest about trolleying all the way to Maine. 
Indeed, he blandly suggested that we could save time 
by taking the steam railroad; and when we met his 
objection by insisting that we were not in a hurry, 
he was utterly unable to recognize our un-American 
point of view. Louisa is sure he had doubts of our 
sanity; and I remember now how he cast a look of 
deep suspicion at Old Nick. 




STAMFORD TOWN 



CHAPTER V. 

On the Connecticut Shore. 

"A shady road with a grassy track; 
A car that follows free ; 
A Summer's scene at early morn; 
A nickel for a fee." 

Such seemed to be the song of the whizzing wheels, as 
leaving in the dim distance the stone bridge that spans 
the Noroton at Stamford line, we sped onward along 
the Connecticut s]iore. Although in the crowded cities 
the day was recorded as the hottest of the season, the 
rate of speed at which we were tearing along, fanned 
the air into a mild simoom, tempering the heat to a 
refreshing coolness; while our course swerving grad- 
ually from the Old Post Road, we caught the off-shore 
breeze from Roton Point, which pushes its snub nose 
well out into the broad waters of the Sound. The 
grass track, laid under an archway of trees, banished 
the plague of dust; and no picnic hordes, as on the 
dav before, lay in ambush along the route to invade 
our peace and comfort. 

At Roton Point we inhaled our first pufif of undiluted 
salt air, for here the trolley runs to the water's edge. 
As we looked across the blue surface of the Sound, 
it was a natural delusion to fancy we saw Father Nep- 
tune raising his placid head above the depths and nod- 

60 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 61 

ding the sharp, tip of his trideijt, as if bidding us rest 
a while by his domains. So pointed an invitation we 
could not politely decline, even on the score of a previ- 
ous eneaeement; and accordinglv, while our car 




BREATHING THE GERMS OF LAZINESS 

retraced its rapid course to the Post Road, we lingered 
at the Point. 

" The air was calm and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played." 

quoted Louisa. There are two things that move her 
to quotation, the moonlight and the sea shore. 

" Panope," I repeated, having but a dim idea of the 
identity of the lady. " If there are any distinguished 
visitors here," I went on, taking up Killdeer, " let me 
snap them." 



62 A Th'OLLEY H0XEY3J00N 

Louisa, however, relapsed into silence and seemed to 
be scanning the water intently, perhaps for a glimpse 
of the latest thing out in sea serpents. 

There was little, in fact, to disturb one's day dream. 
Now and then a naphtha launch puffed saucily across 
our vision, or far in the offing a sail crept slowly along. 

" How delightfully lazy here." drawled Louisa at 
last, coming out of her reverie. 

" Laziness, you know, is a disease — that's the latest 
theory," I returned. " Some German wonder has bot- 
tled up a few of the specimen germs." 

"The germs are delicious anyway," she rejoined; 
and indeed we both continued to breathe in the sea 
air until our throats were almost scarified w^ith hook- 
shaped microbes and we were positively ashamed to 
look the innocent, little creatures in the face. At last, 
germ-sated, we sauntered back to the station, where we 
leisurely boarded the Norwalk trolley. 

The trolley service, however, was not affected by 
the germs of laziness and we made good time towards 
our destination. High noon found us standing on a 
street corner of Norwalk town (Norwalk, like all Gaul, 
is divided into three parts) in the shadow of a store 
window, lying in wait for the Westport trolley. The 
town was steeped in the drowsiness of Sleepy Hollow ; 
in the heat of midday few pedestrians were abroad. 
Even the urchins lounging on the corner looked list- 
less and wilted. Across the way was a narrow bridge, 
from beyond the iron railing of which a tall mast rose 
here and there. Louisa has a weakness for old bridges; 
and at this one, therefore, and the shipping in the back- 
ground I tried some random shots. As ill-luck would 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 63 

have it, however, a one-horse " shay," that looked Hke 
the one in which Washington rode on his historic visit 
to the town, projected itself into the view, while a 
gaudily-painted lunch-w'agon nearby with red glass 
windows threw^ its baleful influence over the scene. 

Even a Westport car comes to him who w^aits; and 
doubly welcome to our trained ears was the Wagnerian 
rattle of its wheels, for the sound meant a speedy deliv- 
erance from the glaring noon-dav heat on Norwalk 




FROM NORWALK BRIDGE 



corner. Though the countryside, through which w^e 
now trolleyed, was hardly as attractive as that near 
Stamford, yet the landscape was by no means lacking 
in " subjects." 

One of these, indeed, I long had occasion to remem- 
ber. For while w'e were rumbling over the long bridge 
into Westport, I tried to take a snap through the cha- 



64 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

otic mass of poles and cross-beams which went whirl- 
ing by us. To get a clearer field of view, I was lean- 
ing far over the side rail, when suddenly there loomed 
up right in front of me the legend, painted in large, 
black letters on a white background, '* Lay Hold on 
Eternal Life; " and I drew back in the nick of time to 
dodge a huge trolley pole. 

" Pretty close shave," I heard a 'passenger remark. 
" That camera fiend will get' his neck broke if he isn't 
more careful; " while a chorus of " Rubber'' from a 
trio of small boys on a rear seat contributed to compro- 
mise my professional dignity. After that experience 
I never encouraged any familiarity on the part of trol- 
ley poles. 

Hardly had we crossed the bridge before the motor- 
man turned off the current with a sudden jerk that 
almost threw us from our seats. " Hay wagon on the 
track," was the laconic and joyous comment of one of 
the small boys, as the curiosity seekers scrambled out 
to investigate the phenomenon. Following the others, 
I saw a group in shirt-sleeves, trying to pry up the 
broken wheel of a wagon, while the track was littered 
with hay three feet deep. They were toiling away in 
the broiling sun when we left the scene. For a car 
had been despatched from Southport to take the pas- 
sengers on to that town. 

Majestic old elms arching the highways give to trol- 
leying along the Connecticut shore a charm that is all 
its own. Of these trees none are statelier than those 
that stand like giants, guarding the main street of 
Fairfield. 

As we trolleyed through this historic town, Louisa 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 65 

dove again into the guide-books, only to come up drip- 
ping with revolutionary lore. 

" What a delightful old town," she exclaimed, glow- 
ing with enthusiasm. " I just dote on these colonial 
houses," she added. " Just fancy, there's one famous 
old house here that has .^^"^3; closets in it." 

"And a skeleton in every closet, no doubt," broke in 
a fellow-passenger, who had courteously pointed out 
to us many historical landmarks en route. 

"They say there's a lot of buried treasure in Fair- 
field," Louisa went on. 

" I wonder if Morgan and Rockefeller know about 
it," rejoined our cynical companion. 

Our conversation shifted to the old stocks and pil- 
lory, which stood in Puritan days on the very green- 
sward we were whizzing past. 

" We ought to have pillories nowadays," the cynic 
was moved to say, as he peered through his spectacles 
at the historic spot. " They would be just the place," 
he added, " to hold those automobile fiends." 

He had intended, I suspect, to add camera fiends to 
his pillory list ; but at sight of Killdeer he suddenly 
checked himself. 

In a few minutes, however, Fairfield green was only 
a memory and we were speeding on our way to Bridge- 
port. The name " Barnum Avenufe " on a sign post 
apprised us that we were in the city of the great show- 
man. Our thoughts went back to the cherry-colored 
cat of blessed memory and to the sacred white elephant, 
at whose shrine the public had worshipped until it 
transpired that the sanctity of the beast had been 
imparted to it by Barnum's paint-brush. 



66 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



" O, look at that statue there," exclaimed Louisa 
as we passed Barnum Avenue. Following her gesture, 
I saw an iron figure standing in the center of a large 
garden, its right hand raised expectantly towards us; 
and almost automatically in response I shook old Nick 
to bring out a nickel. Such is the tyranny of habit 
developed on a long trolley trip when the conductor 
with his insatiate demand is ever at vour elbow. 




THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 



It had never occurred to us in the wildest flight of 
fancv that two trolley trippers on a honeymoon would 
be mistaken for fugitives from justice; yet such was 
our apparent experience at a hotel in Bridgeport. The 
clerk bored me through with a suspicious glare; and 
when I checked our baggage, I noticed the same 
dubious look. Both porter and bellboy kept their eyes 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



61 



glued to the kodak — for I had dechned to have it 
checked with the other portables — and indeed followed 
our movements with lynx-eyed vigilance. To add to 
the mystery of the situation, the clerk informed me in a 
confidential tone that a tall, important-looking stranger 
with an official air had been at the hotel the day before, 
making anxious inquiries about us and hinting darkly 
at a secret, thous^h urp-ent mission. On reflection we 




A F.A.IRFIELD CHURCH 



decided that it must be a case of mistaken identity, and 
that the mysterious stranger was an officer on some 
fugitive's trail. With that we dismissed the subject. 
The sun's rays beat down mercilessly upon us, as we 
stood on the bridge near the steamboat landing, looking 
anxiously for the New Haven trolley. Suddenly a car 
hove in sight and came thundering across the bridge 



68 A TROLLEY HOXEYMOON 

towards the waiting throng. In the precipitate stam- 
pede for seats that ensued, we joined with a fury and 
professional agihty that had now become second 
nature, and following in the wake of a supple, little 
man who showed himself a clever strategist, we dove 
into the car from the off side, even before the guard 
rail had been shifted or the stepping board adjusted. 
Thus it is that trolley communications corrupt good 
manners. Be that as it may, our hysterical struggle 
bore fruit, and we settled back comfortably into two 
choice seats in motorman's row, conjuring up bright 
visions, as the car started, of the ride to New Haven 
along the shore. 

At the Stratford end of the bridge 1 shook a fare 
out of Nick into the conductor's hand. 

" You're on the wrong car," he shouted in sten- 
torian tones, when he learned our destination. There 
was an impatient pull at the cord; the flyer stopped, 
and off we were bundled ignominiously from our " box 
seats," while the other passengers, some of whom 
remembered our frantic struggle for seats, broke out 
into an exasperating titter. 

" I don't see anything to laugh about," Louisa con- 
fided to me with much earnestness, as juggling once 
more our coats and grips we began the tramp back in 
the sizzling heat to the point we had started from. Our 
discomfiture was complete when we heard two pass- 
ersby remark, after a quizzical glance at us, " I guess 
they're stranded actors walking back to New York. 
Why don't they take a hand car ? " 

Time and trnlleying, however, soothe all disappoint- 
ments. A half hour's delav — and our misadventure 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



69 



was forgotten in the pleasure of the ride to New 
Haven. The snatch of scenery along the Housatonic; 
trim village greens and old homesteads set among 
towering elms and maples; now a glimpse of field and 
woodland, now a far-sweeping view of the Sound; 
here the sight of gypsy camps in the roadside woods, 
there of tents pitched on the beach — all united to make 
two hours of ideal trolley tripping. Yet our route was 




BY THE ROADSIDE, STRATFORD 



a meandering one 



and as our car fairly flew along, 
the sudden twists and turns around Milford green 
cheated Killdeer out of many a choice shot. 

There had been a strike of conductors and motor- 
men on the New Haven and Bridgeport line; and its 
echoes were still audible when we reached Woodmont, 
a summer colony on the Sound. For here the union 



70 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

men from New Haven unfeelingly refused to take our 
flyer into the city. In fact, it took over half an hour 
to appease the dignity of labor and set the wheels 
revolving again. Even then we were gnawed by a 
secret fear that perhaps the conductor had neglected to 
put the union blue label on the electric current. 

During our enforced stay at the little station the 
passengers found amusement in the buffoonery of two 
Italian peanut venders, father and son, whose jokes 
and grimaces, as they recklessly disparaged each other's 
wares, were as diverting as a play. 

Indeed, Woodmont proved to be a ]jlace of amusing 
surprises. Near the trolley track was a goat, tied to a 
revolving pole, who gazed at us with a melancholy air. 
The humiliation of captivity had broken his once proud 
spirit, and in truth as William the Beard Blown stood 
there, his hopes tantalized by an indigestible assort- 
ment of cans and paper-bags, the aftermath of some 
picnic that lay just beyond the limits of his tether, he 
looked for all the world like patience on a monument. 

When our car got under way again, it shot along 
like a cannon-ball express, our course following the 
shore closely. At Savin Rock the allurements of a 
baseball game, together with a medley of other attrac- 
tions from a " shore dinner " to the never-failing 
announcement of " refined vaudeville," had assembled 
a small army of pleasure seekers. As we pulled up at 
the station and saw the crowd of excursionists, memo- 
ries of Mount Vernon rose vividly before us and we 
prepared for a stampede. Fortunately, however, it was 
still early in the afternoon and we passed through 
unmolested, turnine northward in the direction of New 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



71 



Haven. Black clouds were gathering in the north; 
and when we alighted from the flyer at Yale Green, 
the rain-drops began to patter down — the prelude to 
a violent showier. 




NEW HAVEN GREEN 



CHAPTER VI. 

A Mysterious Pursuit. 

Over the Yale campus hung the sepulchral silence of 
vacation time. At night only the note of the baffled 
mosquito broke the solitude of the quadrangle; and in 
the Stygian darkness the blank walls of Skull and 
Bones seemed wrapped in a deeper mystery than ever. 
Even Vanderbilt Hall loomed up dark and forbidding 
in the gloom. 

Doubtless it would have done two victims of trolley 
fever no harm (as such we were) to have lingered 
longer in Yale's reposeful shades, forgetting for a 
while how to " Step lively " and " Move up front; " 
but the trolley germ, like all others, must run its course, 
and the next morning accordingly we continued our 
journey. 

At New Haven we learned that the break in the trol- 
ley line near Cheshire had not been filled in and that a 
change in our plans, therefore, would be rendered nec- 
essary. In this emergency we were advised to take the 
steam cars to Wallingford and trolley on from there. 

" Why. the idea. That would be disloyal in a trol- 
ley tripper," demurred Louisa at first. " We'd better 
walk it." Yet the memory of that "4iike'/ across 
Stratford bridge counselled prudence, and we decided 
therefore on the Wallingford roufe. 

That half hour's ride in a stufTy steam car, with its 

72 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 73 

plague of smoke and cinders and annoying attentions 
of the news demon, confirmed us in our belief that 
trolleying is much pleasanter than " railroading " — at 
least on a hot summer day. When the brakeman yelled 
" Wallingford," we fled incontinently from the train, 
eager to enjoy once more the forced breeze from the 
front seat of a trolley flyer. 

Enquiring at the station about the car to Meriden, 
we were directed to a quiet corner across a tangle of 
railroad tracks ; and thither we made a bee line, dodg- 
ing just in time a freight train, which was being 
shunted back and forth on the crossing. " Hurry up ! " 
shouted Louisa, who as usual led the van. Running 
amuck, I caught up with her just in time to learn that 
it was half an hour before the next car would leave. 

Louisa, who has a weakness for statistics, has cal- 
culated that out of the eleven days required to make 
our trip, we spent at least one day in posing on unap- 
preciative street corners and peering wistfully into 
space for sight of belated Juggernauts. Though we 
tried to persuade ourselves that these frequent breaks 
in our journey were blessings in disguise, yet there 
were occasions when the disguise seemed almost impen-- 
etrable. So it was in the dreary blankness of that 
A\^allingford corner. The most taking object that met 
our eyes was a long house on wheels in a nearby lot 
having emblazoned upon it the inscription " Klon- 
dyke Traveling Art Gallery." As it was stuck fast in 
the mud, " Traveling " seemed a misnomer, while 
" Klondyke " must have been inspired by the same god- 
dess of incongruity, who presides over hotel names. 
^^■hat's in a name, we reflected. Was there not once a 



74 



A rh'OLLEY HONEYMOON 



" Holy Roman Empire " that yet was neither Holy, 
Roman, nor an Empire? 

When the Meriden trolley came rumbling down the 
road, it proved to be an old-time four-wheeler. Yet, 
as we found, it made much better time than its sedate 
and venerable appearance promised. The trip Aleriden- 
ward was not fruitful in incident. Indeed, the most 
diverting- episode cii route was afforded by a cow tak- 




"HAiL, Britannia!"' 



ing a mud bath, and the most notable wavside objects 
were a straggling assortment of scarecrows — dubious 
booty even for a wandering hobo. 

Our view of the Silver Plate City (as Meriden is 
styled from one of its chief industries) was necessar- 
ily brief. In fact, we hardly had time to say " Hail 
Britannia " before we were whisked into the connecting 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 75 

car and were speeding out of the liroad main square 
towards the city Hue. In our hurried survey, however, 
we caught sight of one ludicrous figure in Meriden's 
square that we shall not soon forget. A small man, 
his head crowned with a tiny skull cap, was passing 
along at a mincing gait, twirling in one hand a fan 
and holding- in the other an open umbrella of family 
dimensions. Over one arm. also, was swung a long- 
storm coat, making a grotesque contrast to the airy 
and brilliant shirt-waist that formed a striking- part of 
his remarkable get-up. " He's the official crazy man 
of the city," explained the conductor to us in a burst of 
confidence; and appearances certainly indicated that 
the man was mad, at least nor-nor west. 

On reaching the city line we found the outskirts of 
Meriden bedraggled in mud and mire. We stopped 
near a narrow bridge where gaping ruts over a foot 
deep were visible in the highway. 

" They are going to repair the road," volunteered 
the conductor apologetically to one of the passengers. 

'' Rood," snififed a bilious-looking man. " I thought 
the government was trying to dredge out a canal here," 
and we echoed his sentiments, while we floundered 
through the slough of despond to the Lazy Lane car, 
a stone shot off. 

In front of us was an eight-wheeler, the two rear 
seats of which were piled high with milk cans, while 
a stalwart, red-faced man was busily engaged in dis- 
charging the contents of his wagon into the adjoining 
seat. After the rattle and clatter were over, we jumped 
aboard and the conductor signaled to start. Hardly, 
however, had he pulled at the cord before a sharp, 



76 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

ringing cry was heard and looking around we beheld 
a tall, dignified man making signs of recognition. 

" Wait. Hold the car," he bellowed, waving excit- 
edly a long, white package of papers. " There's a 
party aboard I want to see," he shouted again; and 
the look of grim determination on his face indicated 
business of pressing importance. The car pulled up; 
and with eyes fixed on me the stranger made straight 
for our seat. Louisa's heart was in her mouth, for 
the thought flashed through her mind that the man was 
the officer who had made enquiries about us at the hotel 
in Bridgeport. His appearance tallied exactly with 
that of the mysterious stranger; and we now recalled 
how our experience in Bridgeport had been repeated at 
the New Haven hotel, where the bellboys exchanged 
suspicious glances over our baggage, though why we 
could not then fathom. " Perhaps they take us for the 
missing Humberts," Louisa had laughingly suggested, 
though I was still inclined to lay all blame upon our 
excess of luggage which might not unnaturally raise 
a presumption of ill-gotten gains. 

Hopping quickly up the running board, the stranger 
planted himself beside us. Then, as the car shot ahead 
he made known in his breezy, masterful style the pur- 
pose of his intrusion. He blandly hoped we would 
pardon the interruption ; but he had heard we were on 
a honeymoon and after tendering some ponderous con- 
gratulations declared he had a matter of the utmost 
importance to lay before us, for which purpose he 
would like to have a little confidential talk with me. 
I winced at this, for the recollection was still painful 
of my last " confidential talk." It had been with a man 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 11 

" on the inside " (I wish he'd staid there), who advised 
me to buy on the " breaks " and sell on the " bulges " — 
with the result that I got the " bulges " and " breaks " 
as hopelessly mixed as were Little Buttercup's found- 
lings; and I dropped accordingly on the wrong side 
of the market. 

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask the man how 
he had learned so much about us, when he smartly 
tapped the package he clutched in one hand and 
exclaimed : " Just run your eye over that." Louisa 
turned pale, expecting every moment to hear the man 
say: "I have an unpleasant duty to perform" — the 
conventional method of making an arrest, as she had 
gathered from long novel reading. With visions of a 
county jail yawning for me, I glanced over one of the 
pages he had thrust before my nose and read the words, 
" Twenty-year Endowment Accumulation Policy," 
while underneath the title was a blinding array of 
numerals. " Figures don't lie, you know," he broke 
out, pulling at his stubby, black mustache. " That is 
just the sort of policy you want." 

For my part, I had no such idea of such a want ; but 
the stranger's very audacity compelled attention, if not 
belief. A man in Wilmington, he explained, had put 
him on my trail; and then recognizing that I was the 
victim of a practical joke I commented bitterly on the 
diseased sense of humor that sometimes seizes on one's 
friends. Still I realized that nothing short of a head- 
on collision would tear the voluble agent from my side; 
and I submitted, therefore, with the best grace possible, 
while he launched into a long exposition about the sol- 
emn duty of my providing for my family. Louisa, 



78 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

however, was greatly relieved. At any rate, the stran- 
ger was not a sheriff; and getting insured under 
duress was better than going to jail — that was her 
point of view. 

Meanwhile our car was whizzing on to Lazy Lane 
and a panorama was unrolled before our eyes that drew 
frequent exclamations of delight from Louisa. My 
attention, however, was distracted from the scenery by 
my persecutor, whose organs of speech seemed specially 
constructed to expound the merits of his " Twenty- 
year Accumulation Policy." To the right loomed up 
in bold relief the rugged outlines of High Peak, while 
the trim arbors and broad acres of Hubbard Park made 
another goodly sight. Passing the park, we had on 
both sides of the road a sweeping view of rolling coun- 
try, stretching far away in the sunlight to the blue 
northern hills. 

My persecutor was still unbottling his statistics, 
when we dashed through the shady main street of 
Southington, the clangor of the gong breaking in 
rudely upon the calm of that languorous, country town. 
The sky had suddenly become obscured with lowering 
clouds, and even my affliction stopped talking long 
enough to remark the probability of a heavy shower. 
For nearly two weeks, we were told, violent rains had 
occurred almost daily in the valley; and we were not 
surprised, therefore, when our motorman, weatherwise, 
put on his long rubber coat, as we left the Southington 
station. As the clouds grew darker, there came back 
to our minds the ominous prediction of our anxious 
friends at home about our fate in thunder storms. 

The rain was beginning to fall when our flyer pulled 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 79 

up at Lazy Lane. This trolley junction is made up of 
a triang-ular track and a small weather-beaten shanty, 
through the entrance of which we saw a venerable man 
sprawling drowsily by the side of a popcorn stand. 
In this retreat we found shelter until the Plainville car 
came along, into which we made a dash more cyclonic 
than dignified. Rain apparently had damped the ardor 
of the importunate agent, who did not attempt to fol- 




MEMORIAL ARCH, HARTFORD 

low us; but as we were running along, between the 
drops, we heard his cheery warning that he hoped to 
see me again " in the near future." I made no return 
to his sally, but I fully believed that having once 
shaken off the burr I could safely take my chances of 
the " near future." 

The name " Lazy Lane " tantalized Louisa's curi- 



80 A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON 

osit}'; but we found its origin involved in the deep 
obscurity of myth and legend. Our conductor, his 
moral sense doubtless blistered by hearing the oft- 
repeated question by travelers, offered the explanation 
that many years ago the authorities began cutting a 
road through this section, but for some reason not 
specified the work lagged along and was never com- 
pleted. The result was that popular fancy transferred 
the sloth of the authorities to the half-completed road, 
or lane, which accordingly received its present name. 

After we left Plainville, our course veered sharply 
to the east, and we ran out of the storm long before we 
reached the suburbs of New Britain. On the way 
we passed White Oak Park, where advertisements 
announced the usual attraction of a vaudeville theatre, 
" occupied daily by high-class talent." By the law of 
contrast, however, the only passengers who got off at 
White Oak were two colored women, black as the ace 
of spades, w-hose set, lugubrious countenances had 
attracted our attention on the run up from Plainville. 
We naturally supposed them to be deep in bereavement, 
and we could hardly believe our eyes when we saw 
them disappearing through the park entrance into the 
tangles of rag-time and end-men's jokes. 

When we boarded the Hartford trolley in New 
Britain square, we realized for the first time the rapid 
increase of the foreign element in New England. For 
certainly a third of the passengers were foreigners — 
a fact evidenced not only by the swarthy faces and 
brilliant kerchiefs, but also by the Babel of tongues 
from Teuton gutturals to French patois. We were not 
surprised, therefore, to learn that the French Canadians 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



81 



and Italians had secured a strong foothold in the land 
of the Puritans, and indeed that the French Canadians 
had become a political power. At many places along 
the route, in country as well as city, the immigrant 
was to be seen, hardy, thrifty and indubitably pros- 
perous. In fact, not only has he imbibed American 
ideas, but he has bettered the instruction. 

" Just too lovely for anything! "' Louisa rapturously 



j 



A HARTFORD STREET 



recorded in her diary, as descriptive of the ten miles 
of trolleying from New Britain to Hartford. As in 
the ride from Aleriden, plain and hill diversified the 
scenery. As we neared the city, the gables of Trinity 
Colle;ge looked down upon us from their commanding 
eminence, and farther on we could see the capitol dome 
glistening in the sun. 



CHAPTER VII. 

From Hartford over the Massachusetts Hills. 

" Would you ever think it? A company of little, fat, 
waddling Dutchmen were the first settlers round Hart- 
ford," philosophised Louisa, as we were strolling 
through Bushnell Park. For her interpretations of 
history are distinctly original, and she frequently insists 
that a little history in time would save nine historical 
novels. 

" Well, Fm glad." she went on to say in her most 
positive, guide-book tone, '' that the Dutchmen zvcrc 
driven away. They Avould have made this beautiful 
city a stupid wilderness of windmills and cabbage 
patches — " a sudden whirring sound and a ringing cry 
of distress, just as we reached the Memorial Arch, 
rudely interrupted the philosophy of history. Glanc- 
ing nervously back in the direction of the noise, we 
beheld a large auto-car bearing madly down upon us. 
The chaufifeur had lost control of his machine and the 
other occupant, a woman, was clinging in terror to the 
careening motor. Naturally we did not stop to dis- 
pute the right of way with the wildcat automobile, 
but fled behind a pillar of the Arch just in time to see 
the machine go reeling by and zigzag for the next 
corner, where it promptly upset, " spilling " both occu- 
pants upon the sidewalk. Rushing to the spot, we 
recognized two members of the gay party of autoists 

82 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 83 

we had passed on the Greenwich road three days before. 
Fortunately they proved to be a good deal more fright- 
ened than hurt. "Only a little shaken up," they 
explained depreciatingly, looking sadly at the machine 
which lay by the curb with its withers all unwrung — 
or so it seemed to my mere trolley eye. 

" Really it's nothing," continued the chauffeur, as 
he explored with a forefinger and thumb his bruised 
nose and the long overhang of his swollen upper lip. 
" I can't understand," he added, " what got into the 
machine. I expected to go straight through to Bos- 
ton; " and he bent over the twisted levers as if to 
exorcise the demon that had taken possession of them. 

" You'd better get another motor or else take out an 
accident policy," volunteered a bystander sententiously 
— advice naturally inspired by Hartford's atmosphere, 
since both automobiles and insurance are substantial 
sources of the city's prosperity. Indeed, it would be 
interesting to know whether it insures more lives than 
are destroyed by the revolvers, machine guns, auto- 
mobiles and other instruments of death that are num- 
bered among its manufactures. 

Our liveliest recollections of Hartford center around 
a street adventure in which a dog figured as the hero, 
a dog worthy to have his praises sung in some canine 
Homeric. Half-way down a broad, tree-lined avenue, 
our car stopped to let on a wayside passenger. As the 
man plumped into a seat near us, we saw close by the 
running board the square jaws and wall eyes of a 
bull dog. The brute made a desperate lunge to follow 
the man in, but the speed of the car. which was now 
forging ahead again, mocked his frantic efforts. Still 



84 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

he followed gamely in the wake of the whizzing eight- 
w'heeler, though soon almost hopelessly distanced. 

Aleanwhile the passenger told his story. The dog, 
it appeared, was not his own, but a stray one that had 
been trailing him around all morning, though he had 
done nothing whatever, he explained, to encourage the 
four-footed compliment. After a race of ten blocks, 
however, the car pulled up for the same man to get off. 
This stop put new hope in the almost exhausted animal; 
and by a heroic effort he succeeded in catching up with 
the flyer before it got under way again. Then — for he 
had not seen the passenger's escape — he jumped furi- 
ously aboard. Quivering and panting, the frantic beast 
leaped from seat to seat in search of the missing man, 
scattering the passengers right and left and knocking 
over Killdeer with a particularly well-directed blow. 
Soon in the fury of his disappointment off he jumped 
to the ground, while the car was going at full speed. 
For a second he lay stunned from the force of the 
impact; then scrambling' up, with head and tongue 
cut and bleeding, he pressed on in a grim, blind chase 
. after the trolley — a chase that never ended before we 
reached the terminal point. Overtaking us at last, he 
charged upon the front platform, where he was cor- 
alled and held captive in the motorman's pen. 

His perseverance, however, was destined to be 
rewarded. On the down trip he caught sight of his 
new master waiting for him at a street corner. On 
being released, he tore to the man's side, every leap 
testifying to his boundless joy. 

The next morning saw^ us standing by the low, iron- 
hooped railing in front of City Hall — the trolley center. 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



85 



While waiting for the East Windsor car to h^ shuttled 
round the loop, we recognized in the changing throng 
that lined the curb some companions on the ride to 
Roton Point along the Sound. On exchanging greet- 
ing we learned that, like ourselves, they were on .their 
way to Boston; they had taken the Cheshire route from 
New Haven and so we had missed them on the way up. 
With the fraternal spirit that prompts through trip- 




A TOBACCO FIELD 



pers, we compared notes and guide-books to mutual 
advantage. 

While thus engaged I heard my name sharply called, 
and the next moment there stood at my elbow the tall, 
dignified stranger who had importuned me on insur- 
ance all the way into Lazy Lane. In his breezy style 
he dwelt upon the unexpected pleasure of the meeting 



86 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

and blandly announced that he should be delighted 
to accompany me as far as Springfield. This would 
give him a good opportunity to lay before me the 
salient features of an entirely new proposition — one 
that I could not afford to neglect, designated as it was 
for my special case. He was too far gone in the pleas- 
ures of his own eloquence to heed my protestations; 
and when we hopped into the Windsor car the insur- 
ance ogre was close at our heels. 

A short ride through the foreign quarter (a minia- 
ture Ghetto which seemed all the more squalid in con- 
trast with the attractive homes of Hartford's aristo- 
cratic avenues) — a dash over the bridge across the 
Connecticut; and we whisked on to East Windsor 
Hill. Here, our persecutor still dangling after us, we 
changed into the commodious double truck which ran 
straight through to Springfield. 

For nearly twenty miles we trolleyed by field and 
farm, or under spreading elms through sedate village 
streets, a long line of white-painted poles marking at 
regular intervals the scheduled stops of the car. The 
rich green of the tobacco fields (green Louisa says; 
but to my imagination disordered by the flood of insur- 
ance talk poured into my ear, the motto, " Figures don't 
lie," seemed to overshadow the landscape) set off here 
and there by the dark outlines of weather-beaten sheds, 
dominated the foreground, while now and then, as we 
skirted the river, its glimmering surface became the 
central point in the field of vision. 

The scenery, however, laid no spell upon the agent. 
All the while, with a beaming countenance and a mas- 
terful manner that disarmed resentment, he quoted ages 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



87 



and in short discoursed upon the merits of his new 
poHcy as rapturously as Dr. Primrose upon his cele- 
brated hobby — and to as little purpose. For his words 
went in one ear and out the other. Yet though suf- 
fering in silence, I had been maturing a plan of ven- 
geance. Biding my time until I could get a word in 
edgewise, I gradually shifted the subject to my own be- 
setting weakness; and then unbottled the confessions of 




THE CONNECTICUT RIVER 



a man in the most hopeless stage of kodakery. When 
he lisped premiums, I matched him with velox; if he 
harped upon endowments, I dilated upon the best way 
of taking a " moving " picture — a subject upon which 
I could speak most feelingly, since all my earlier shots 
had been nothing but a blurred series of " moves." 
The masterful man, however, was not to be squelched. 



88 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

Warily waiting until I had talked myself out, he hegan 
again with his refrain, *' Figures can't lie," and aggres- 
sively essayed another volley of rates and values from 
his little black book. 

At State Line a conspicuous sign, " Hot Buttered 
Pop Corn," announced that we were on Massachusetts 
soil; and soon we were chuff-chuffing along the 
stretch of grass track under the high-arched trees of 
Longmeadow — a cathedral aisle of green that recalled 
the memories of the southern shore. Then but a short 
spurt — and zigging and zagging with the winding river 
we caught sight of Springfield and of Mount Tom 
beyond standing like a giant guard over the valley. 
Passing Forest Park and on through the trim suburbs, 
we went trundling down into the heart of the city. 
Under the railroad arch we parted coldly with the ogre, 
who "hinted, as before, at the probability of another 
conference. 

" ril write up a policy anyway — say about ten thou- 
sand — and submit it to you," he shouted, as we turned 
to go into the hotel. 

" Look out. the figures don't lie." I yelled back at 
him; and. taking a firmer grip upon our baggage, 
Louisa and I fled inside. Here an awful truth dawned 
upon her. 

" Good gracious, we've lost our guide-books," she 
suddenly exclaimed in her tragic alto. \Miether they 
had fallen by the wayside or had found their way by 
mistake into the pocket of the insurance man — it was 
all the same. \\'e were freed from their tyranny, I 
secretly consoled myself. 

To Louisa, however, bereft of her guide-books, there 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 89 

was a shadow of disappointment about our random 
pilgrimage through Springfield's streets, inviting 
though they were. She found a certain compensation 
in the historic landmarks and gazed with rapt interest 
upon the tall white pillars and quaint belfry of the 
" Old First Church," which fronts the square hard by 
the battle monument. 

The " green," or square, with a soldier's monument 
in the center seems to be an ever-present feature of the 
towns in Western Massachusetts; and, as one rambles 
through them, he recalls Hawthorne's words about the 
march of the Gray Champion and the New England 
sense of patriotic duty. 

When the time came to resume our journey, we made 
enquiries concerning the Palmer car and were directed 
to a white pole near the hotel, its regular " berth," or 
stopping place, around which a score of persons were 
already clustered — many of them through trippers, as 
we judged from the goodly array of suit cases. There 
is excellent service on the Springfield trolleys, and 
punctual to the second the Palmer truck came bounding 
along. As it pulled up at the pole, we clutched our 
belongings with a professional grasp preparatory to a 
fierce scramble for seats. For the firm-set jaws of our 
fellow-trippers betokened not only combative qualities, 
but a good measure of New England resolution as 
well. Greatly to our relief, however, they mounted the 
flyer with dignified deliberation; and what was more 
surprising, we had no competitors for the choice seats 
in motorman's row. Casting a last glance back, as the 
car shot off, we saw standing in front of the hotel the 
two victims of the automobile " spill " in Hartford. 



90 



A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON 



They bore no signs of the accident; but were chatting 
merrily, as they regarded with affectionate interest a 
touring car, glossy new, which stood by the curb, 
wheezing asthmatically. 

As we climbed a hill in the suburbs, the wide enclos- 
ure of the United States Armory came into view. At 
sight of the low\, sprawling piles of red brick, sur- 
mounted by a triangular gable, Louisa betrayed a rap- 




A SPRINGFIELD STREET 



turous concern that hardly accorded with her pacific 
Quaker ancestry. 

We had not gone many miles on the way to Palmer 
before we began to observe a marked change in the 
appearance of the country. Smoke-stacks, flumes and 
mill-wheels spoke of a manufacturing section. The 
elms, which had been so attractive a feature of Con- 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 91 

necticiit trolleying, no longer arched the highways, 
though, to be sure, we met them again in all their glory 
on Brookfield green. Along these Massachusetts hills 
much of the scenery has a rugged, indeed rock-bound 
character. Stone walls take the place of the rail fences, 
common in Jersey and Pennsylvania. Even more 
noticeable to the tourist than the physical features of 
the country is the New England voice, with its shrill 
pitch and nasal intonation. Surely it is not an excel- 
lent thing in man or woman — or phonograph. Is it a 
climatic survival or a Puritan heritage ? 

Though the situation of Palmer is undeniably attract- 
ive to the eye, yet much of the illusion disappears 
when one trolleys into the center of the town. Per- 
haps, however, our disappointment was inspired by the 
dreaded sight of a picnic party standing near the track 
and in act to spring upon a car that was rounding a 
curve. As we stepped from the flyer we were caught 
in the rush and the next moment, from sheer force of 
example, we found ourselves wildly elbowing our way 
along with the crowd, regardless of our destination. 
As luck would have it, however,, we landed in the right 
car and were presently speeding over the highway to 
Ware. " 

About five miles out of Palmer our flyer made a 
brief stop near the entrance to a large grove, which 
bumptious advertisements proclaimed " The Pleasure 
Resort of New England," and which, in truth, had a 
most inviting appearance. Here the picnic party got 
off, though with a measured deliberation that afforded 
a grotesque contrast to their riotous haste in boarding 
the car at Palmer. 



92 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

Among the crowd streaming through the entrance 
to the grove was a small boy who was whistling; and 
dancing in blissful anticipations of a day's sport. 
Suddenly, however, we saw him turn and come run- 
ning towards the car, at the same time shouting excit- 
edly to the conductor. Scjuirming in and out among 
the picnickers, he made known to us in husky tones that 
he had lost his lunch basket, which, he supposed, he 




ON THE ROAD TO PALMER 

had left in our car; and tears filled his eyes at the bit- 
ter thought of the cataclysm that had overtaken him — 
for what is life to growing youth without a well-filled 
lunch basket? The tragedy deepened when the good- 
natured conductor, after a thorough search seat by seat, 
could find no trace of the missing cheer. The lad was 
trudging away, the picture of misery, when a sympa- 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 93 

thetic passenger thrust a quarter into his fist and bade 
him drown the first great sorrow of his young Hfe in 
ice cream soda. It transpired that the basket had been 
left in the car which was whizzing back to Pahner far 
beyond the reach of an insatiable appetite. One natur- 
ally wonders what became of " grandmother's cookies." 
Were they turned into the Lost and Found Depart- 
ment? Or, if purloined, did they trouble the con- 
science or digestion of the guilty person? 

Our plans had been to stay over at Ware until the 
next morning. For we had covered fifty miles, our 
daily allotment of trolleying; and besides the spruce- 
looking town gave promise of good hotel accommoda- 
tions. As we were riding down the main street, how- 
ever, Louisa abruptly exclaimed : " Something tells me 
to push ahead on our journey. Let's take the next car 
to Brookfield." 

Just at that moment it came trundling along, and 
prompted by the mysterious warning we made a hur- 
ried transfer to it. At the time I did scant justice to 
Louisa's "impression;" but not long afterwards, as 
will appear, we were both devoutly thankful for having 
obeyed it. 

West Brookfield lies over the hills from Ware; and, 
as was to be expected, we had up-grade trolleying. 
Indeed, we had hardly started on our way before we 
encountered a steep incline. We heard a sudden splut- 
ter of the little trolley wheel, as it spun along the wire; 
and a pungent odor of burnt carbon told us that some- 
thing had gone wrong with the motor. The crippled 
car, however, crept along as far as Wickaboag Lake, 
w^here a " special " was waiting to take the passengers 



94 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



on their way. At this turn of affairs Louisa could ill 
conceal her disappointment, for her imagination, I half 
suspect, had conjured up a romantic adventure to be 
embalmed in her diary. 

An episode of the ride to West Brookfield exemplifies 
the rugged type of character one meets in these New 
England hills. As we turned into the main street of 
that quiet town, an angular, hatchet-faced woman 




THE HILLS NEAR WARE 



flounced from her seat and signalled the conductor to 
stop; but as it chanced, she was carried a few feet 
beyond her destination. Glaring indignantly at the 
conductor, she demanded in a shrill voice that the car 
run back to her destination or else that her nickel be 
returned. Both these demands being flatly refused, 
she got oft' the car in high dudgeon and. transferring 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 95 

her wrath to the motorman, shook her umbrella vio- 
lently in his face. The novel sight of a mere passen- 
ger trying to bullyrag both motorman and conductor 
so unnerved me that I forgot to snap Killdeer at the 
scene. If only that New Rochelle despot, I thought, 
could meet with such a Nemesis. 

The ancient four-wheeler, into which we now 
changed for Spencer, was most uncomfortably crowded 
and we were compelled accordingly to take seats in 
" smokers' row," where we were nearly suffocated from 
tobacco fumes. Through this obscuring veil we could 
get but a hazy view of the landscape as we trolleyed 
on. One thing, however, clings to our memory — a 
guide-post by the roadside, reading " To Podunk 3 M." 
So Podunk really is on the map. I had believed it to 
be a myth of my schoolboy days. 

A short time afterwards we were bowding along 
through the outskirts of Spencer, where an odor of 
vinegar, mightier than those of fair Cologne, welcomed 
the stranger within the gates. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

A Fortunate Decision. 

Spencer was brave in flags and bunting the afternoon 
we trolleyed into town ; and up and down its hilly main 
street excitement was afoot. As the Fourth of July 
had gone and St. Patrick's was still far off, we were 
at loss to account for the sudden blaze of glory that 
had burst upon the little manufacturing town. Our 
first enquiry, however, brought out the truth with 
awkward bluntness. 

" Is there a good hotel here? " I buttonholed a resi- 
dent while we were plodding down the steep descent 
from the Town Hall. 

" We ought to have," returned the man with an into- 
nation that conveyed a covert rebuke. '' We are just 
celebrating our one hundred and fiftieth anniversary." 

Dazed by his subtle reasoning, and mutely following 
his directions, we soon beheld at a distance well within 
the enchantment limit a large white structure with a 
two-story balcony swathed in gaudy decorations — ■ 
doubtless the survival of the civic celebration. We 
hurried inside its portals and with all due homage I 
sought out the dignitary behind the desk. 

" Shooting now? "' I heard someone say in a hearty 
tone, as I was craning my neck over the hotel register ; 
and turning around I recognized the twinkling eyes and 
waggish smile of the through tripper we had met at 

96 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 97 

Roton and afterwards in Hartford. In answer I 
pointed to Killdeer, whicli was slung over my left 
shoulder; and in the course of conversation I chanced 
to mention my loquacious persecutor on the trip to 
Spring-field, of whom he entertained a lively recol- 
lection. 

" That insurance burr,'' he repeated, giving me a 
fraternal slap on the shoulder. " I just ran across him 
here in Spencer this morning. He asked me if I had 
seen you." 

" Here in town," I gasped. 

'' Yes, hot foot on your trail," he returned. " Do 
you know," he added, "I think the man's nutty;" 
and he tapped his forehead oracularly, as if in further 
confirmation of his diagnosis. 

If it be " nuttiness," I thought, there's method in it. 
Indeed, hardly had the mention of the demon escaped 
our lips before we heard his cloven foot; and the office 
door suddenly swinging open, the agent stood before 
us as imperturbable as the Sphinx. 

" Here you are. I've made it ten thousand," he 
declared after a brief salutation, while he waved an 
impressive-looking paper close to my nose. 

In his masterful presence I could make no demur. 
I suffered in silence as he went on in his monologue. 
He would really advise me to carry another five thou- 
sand, and would be happy, of course, to acquaint me 
with his plan of dividends deferred that maketh the 
heart sick. Dowai went his pudgy fist into his pocket, 
but I intercepted him in time. 

" Don't show me that exasperating, little black book 
again," I protested. " I draw the line on that." 

7 



98 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

" I was merely going to say," he returned, " that 
figures don't He." 

Then, while I listened in dumb helplessness, he broke 
out more volubly than before. His demonic scheme 
of vengeance was evident; if he couldn't insure me, 
he would at least talk me to death. Half assenting, 
therefore, to his demands, I made a conditional appoint- 
ment for the following morning, when I hoped to steal 
a march on him. 

There was another surprise in store for us at this 
hotel in Spencer. At our first meal there one guest 
had incautiously asked for hot rolls. 

" Hot rolls for supper. Certainly not," repeated the 
austere waitress in icy tones; and the New England 
conscience reflected in her eyes looked daggers at the 
questioner who shrank back abashed in his chair. 

We were up betimes the next morning. There had 
been a sudden fall in temperature: and indeed there 
was such a chill in the air, when we boarded the eight- 
wheeler for Worcester that we were glad to impress 
into service the heavy coats we had been tempted to 
throw away the day before. The jovial trolley ite we 
had overtaken at the hotel joined us, armed with his 
large tripod camera, at sight of which Killdeer, feeling 
his insignificance as a mere snap-shooter, could not 
conceal his professional jealousy. Just before starting 
we strained our eyes for a glimpse of our pursuer, but 
greatly to our relief, as well as surprise, his silk hat 
and stalwart figure were nowhere to be seen. Our 
companion, to be sure, insisted that the man was con- 
cealed under the fender; but this hypothesis, though 
plausible, proved to be groundless. 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



99 



Trolleyiiig in the early morning on a summer's day 
has an irresistible charm; and the inviting landscape 
on the way to Worcester made the ride far more enjoy- 
able than the leaden-footed parasangs through the three 
Brookfields on the afternoon before. 

At the suggestion of our fellow-tripper, we stopped 
over in Leicester (an attractive village half way on the 
road to Worcester) where, as he assured us, we would 




ON THE HILL. SPEKXER 



find good 



shooting. 



So it proved. For the town 
stands on a hill that commands a striking view of the 
countryside. Not before Killdeer had done his worst 
with the unoffending scenery and our ammunition was 
exhausted did we resume our journey. 

As we trolleyed into the main square of Worcester, 
the black hands on City Hall clock pointed to nine 



LofC 



100 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

minutes after ten. The curb of the broad pavement 
was black with waiting excursionists, the eyes of the 
host gkied to the Boston flyer, which was shooting 
around the corner. We had heard much of this new 
route on the ConsoHdated (forty miles in two hours 
without change) ; and as the line-up by the curb sud- 
denly broke in a scattered rush for the eight-wheeler, 
Louisa exclaimed excitedly : " O hurry, please. Let's 
take this car." 

" But I thought you wanted to stay over and look 
around the city," I interposed. '' You know Worcester 
is the heart of the commonwealth." 

A toss of her head sealed the decision, and we hur- 
riedly joined the scramble for seats. Our trolley 
experience stood us in good stead. For our fighting 
blood once aroused, we jostled and jammed and jabbed 
our fellow-mortals so aggressively that though the car 
made only a lightning stop, we succeeded in hurling 
ourselves aboard, though necessarily in a bedraggled 
condition and with both baggage and manners much 
the worse for wear. Fate squeezed us into the very 
front row, where one rides backward, gazing the while 
into the solemn trolley faces of one's fellow-passengers. 

And speaking of manners — our long trip convinced 
us of the crying need of a complete guide or manual 
on " The Etiquette of Trolley Stampedes," with copi- 
ous notes and diagrams adjusted to critical situations. 
Among pertinent chapters in such a code book would 
be the following: 

" Is it off-side to knock your fellow-tripper down 
before the car for which vou are waiting comes to a 
full stop?" 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



101 



" Will parlor manners preserve one's life in a trolley 
crush?" 

" Why * let 'em off first ? ' Has the rule any founda- 
tion in Ethics? " 

One wonders, however, whether the author of a 
Polite Guide for Trolley Use would be any more likely 
to follow his own teaching- than the man who wrote the 




A WORCESTER CORNER 



historic book against duelling and afterwards chal- 
lenged one of its critics to mortal combat. 

The ride to Boston proved a succession of novel 
experiences. In a few minutes we were out of the 
city limits, flying- past field after field of sumac. At 
Shrewsbury line, however, our motorman pulled up 
with a sudden jolt; and the long, tedious delay that 
ensued, first apprised us of the disorganized condition 



102 A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON 

of the running schedule. As it proved, our car was 
" held " to await the up flyer; and not until it thun- 
dered past was there a clear track for us to go ahead. 
Once under way again, however, we tore along at a 
rate of speed that almost took our breath away. It 
was trolleying fast and furious. Though this whirl- 
wind rate was not sustained all the way to Boston, yet 
there were numerous outbursts of speed — and notably 
while the car was running over the company's exclu- 
sive right of way straight through the woods — that 
afforded us a faint glimpse into the autoists' paradise 
when the landscape goes reeling by in a mad, jumbled 
dance. Braced against the sharp knee-caps of a 
weazened-faced man in front of me, and clutching my 
note-book in one hand, I prepared to jot down with the 
other a few dazed impressions. Hardly, however, had 
I whipped out my pencil before the note-book, upon 
which I had inadvertently loosened my grip, was swept 
out of my hand by the speed-generated breeze and 
whirled far into space. 

" There goes my manuscript," I cried ruefully. 

" What a pity," consoled Louisa. " You'll never 
get it back." 

" But manuscripts always come back," I rejoined In 
a tone of conviction. 

Meanwhile on we whizzed. At times, when the 
speed was greatest, we felt the same qualmish sensa- 
tion that one experiences in an express elevator as it 
goes shooting down from the top floor of a skyscraper. 
Such speed mania does not make ideal trolleying: and 
indeed in many cases is a senseless challenge to dis- 
aster. Still it was reassurine to observe the elaborate 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



103 



system of signals that the company had installed as a 
safeguard against danger. For at frequent intervals 
along the track were posted signs bearing such warn- 
ings as " Whistle," " Stop," " Go slow." 

This flying Yankee made but few scheduled stops; 
but those were thrice welcome, since the rocking and 
swaying of the eight-wheeler not only conveyed a most 
disquieting sense of peril, but the cannon-ball rate of 




speed made of the landscape a chaotic blur. To be sure, 
here and there, as the car slowed up, a few shreds and 
patches of scenery were disclosed to us. We caught 
a fleeting view of the countryside round Southboro, 
where the track winds along a chain of watersheds. 
We lingered for a brief moment under the shade in 
the drowsy streets of Framingham and Wellesley, 



104 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

though Lake Waban and the grounds of Wellesley 
College lay outside our field of vision. x\s we neared 
Brookline, however, our flyer had another speed spasm, 
so that our recollections of this suburb of Boston are 
but an indistinct medley of trees and poles. 

In spite of the long delay at Shrewsbury line, we 
reached Chestnut Hill very nearly on time; but here 
the passengers were obliged to change cars for the sub- 
way. " Dumped out " expresses more accurately our 
method of egress from the flyer. For hardly had the 
wheels stopped turning before a flock of trolley trip- 
pers from Boston swooped down upon us to capture 
seats for the return ride to Worcester; and through 
three or four rows, therefore, of highly-excited culture 
w-e had to fight our way to the ground. Indeed, in my 
anxiety to save Killdeer from being crushed in the 
melee, I found myself wedged in between the backs of 
two seats, one of which was being reversed by half a 
dozen excited claimants. For the principle of " Let 
'em off first " is apparently not recognized in the mod- 
ern Athens. A well-dressed man with a heavy Web- 
sterian brow, fiercely intent on going Worcester ward, 
stubbornly blocked my way out, as if he regarded my 
presence as a most unreasonable intrusion; and he 
yielded only at the last moment. Once out, I looked 
wildly around for Louisa, who had tripped out ahead 
of me. Fortunately she had passed through the scrim- 
mage unscathed. As we shook ofif the signs of con- 
flict, we declared our conviction that this stampede at 
Chestnut Hill was the worst exhibition of trolley man- 
ners we had yet seen, not excepting Broadway and the 
metropolis, where all things come to him who — rushes. 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 105 

As we saw the flyer rapidly disappear in the direction 
of Worcester, Httle did we think that it was dashing 
towards a tragedy. Yet that evening we heard the 
Boston newsboys histily crying out *' Terrible Acci- 
dent on the Consolidated. One Killed and Forty 
Injured." As it proved, this very car, for seats in 
w^hich the crowd had struggled so madly at Chestnut 
Hill, collided with the flver from Worcester. The 




A BACK BAY STREET, BOSTON 



catastrophe impressed us all the more deeply because 
of the knowledge, now brought home to us, that in all 
human probability we should have been passengers on 
the down car and among the victims of the wreck, had 
not Louisa's mysterious warning at Ware changed our 
plans and hurried us on our journey. 

Boston was sweltering in heat and the chill air of 



106 A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON 

the subway afforded a welcome, if brief, deliverance. 
We had heard much of the reserved Bostonian manner ; 
and we were taken by surprise, therefore, on alighting 
at Park Street station to find the place seething with 
excitement. The platform was awhirl with men, 
women and children trying to dodge each other, as 
they prepared excitedly to vault into the open eight- 
wheelers which were flying round the loop with bewil- 
dering rapidity. 

" Why, just look there," cried Louisa, as we turned 
to go up the exit to the street. I screwed my head 
around in time to see a fat, dumpy woman, a shawl 
over her head, chasing a car down the loop and shriek- 
ing: "Me baby. They've gone off wid me baby." 
Louisa had seen her fling her child and a large bundle 
on the rear seat of a Brighton car; but before the 
woman could follow her belongings the flyer had swept 
past its " berth " (as the stopping place is called) and 
was racing down the tunnel. We did not await the 
result of the woman's quest; but we were fully con- 
vinced that one must be spry indeed to leap into a sub- 
way trolley. Life, in truth, is real and earnest in the 
Park Street subway. 

The teachers' convention and low railroad rates 
from the west had attracted to Boston a larger number 
than usual of sightseers. Their name was legion. We 
met them, not only in our pilgrimages through the 
rambling byways of the city, but also in its environs — 
and notably in historic Concord and Cambridge. 

During our stay in the Hub the mystery attaching 
to Killdeer was explained. The knowing, almost inso- 
lent, leer on the face of the hotel porter, when I 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



107 



declined to entrust my kodak to his feed mercy, recalled 
my experience in Bridgeport. 

" Say, Buttons," I turned sharply on him. '' What 
are you grinning at? Haven't you ever seen a kodak 
before?" 

" Why, Boss," he plumped back. " We fellows 
thought perhaps you were carrying diamonds in it. 
It's an old dodge." 

Diamonds. Louisa and I laughed heartily at the 
idea; but after that I was cautious how I showed my 
affection for Killdeer in public. 




UNDER THE OLD ELM, CAMBRIDGE 



CHAPTER IX. 

Ix \\'hich We are Gorged with History. 

The East Wind of Boston is a tricksy spirit; and the 
morning we continued our journey, the mahcious elf 
was holding- high carnival on Chelsea bridge. There 
had been, however, a sudden drop in the temperature; 
and when we descended into the tunnel at Scollay 
Square the damp air chilled us to the bone. 

Across the Lynn meadows the wind had full sweep; 
and though the curtains were drawn taut, trolleying in 
an open car in the teeth of Notus was so little to our 
relish that we were heartily glad to find refuge in the 
more sheltered city. 

'' O curfew of the setting sun, O bells of Lynn; 
O requiem of the dying day, O bells of Lynn," 

quoted Louisa. The fact is that it was her day for 
quotations, for otherwise, as we agreed, there could 
have been no reasonable expectation of hearing the 
sound of curfew at the breakfast hour; and, in fact, 
naught but the hum of traffic filled the streets as our 
car pulled up in the square near the railroad crossing. 
Even here, however, the wind was blowing in fitful 
gusts and raising the dust in eddies. Its pranks 
afforded us a diverting comedy, while we stood in the 
lee of a shop window keeping a good lookout, never— 

108 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 109 

theless, for the Salem trolley. One puff switched the 
straw hat off a fat man's head, twirling it high in the 
air, only to let it fall with a sudden flop in the middle 
of the street. Here was the owner's chance; nor was 
he the kind of man to neglect his opportunities. He 
made a dive for the hat and, with a ponderous look 
of self-satisfaction pictured on his solemn countenance, 
had just stooped to grasp the runaway, when off 




WAITING FOR THE TROLLEY, LYNN 

it darted from under his broad palm with a malicious 
spurt, as if it rather exulted in the novel idea of taking 
a day off. No situation could be more trying for 
eminent respectability. Even an imperial Caesar would 
have had hard work to preserve his personal dignity, 
while chasing his laurel wreath around a flatiron corner 
in the Forum on a raw and gusty day. followed by a 



110 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

string of ribald urchins in full cry. As for our hero, 
however, though impious thoughts corrugated his 
brows, he was not to be daunted; but with grim 
Yankee persistency he followed the gyrations of the 
wind-blown object, as it lured him onward. Soon, 
however, hat and pursuer disappeared round a corner 
and the final act in the comedy was hidden from us. 

The Salem car was now at the curb, and the next 
moment we were once more in the throes of a trolley 
scramble. As we scurried across the sidewalk in the 
wake of the crowd, Louisa spied a tiny shoe, evidently 
brand new, lying in the gutter, where it doubtless had 
been carried by the playful breeze. 

" What an appropriate souvenir of the Shoe City," 
she exclaimed; but no sooner had she pounced upon 
the treasure trove than its infant owner came toddling 
up to reclaim it. 

" Findings are keepings." quoted Louisa. 

'' Not shoe findings," beamed the child's parent in 
return; and accordingly the trophy was restored to 
the owner, who crowed with delight. 

Though troUeying through Essex county offers but 
few attractions to the eye, it is rich in historical asso- 
ciations. Hardly, indeed, had we set foot in Salem 
before a bright-eyed lad with shining morning face 
ran up to us and, pointing to a nickel badge on his 
breast, said: " I'm the official guide. Don't you want 
to see the House Qf Seven Gables? " 

The question touching a responsive chord (for 
Louisa was in a deeply historical mood that morning) 
off we started with our youthful escort on a pilgrimage 
through Hawthorne's citv. The dream v influence of 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 111 

the romancer's genius seem still to hang over this old 
Puritan town; and under its spell we could recreate in 
fancy the scene of Maule's execution, where the victim 
of witchcraft bigotry pronounced the curse upon his 
enemy : " God will give thee blood to drink." Yet we 
must admit that the illusion was in a measure dis- 
pelled at the sight of the shabby and fhmsy structure 
which our guide proudly pointed out to us as the 
Gables. In vain we looked for the haunted well and 
garden where Chanticleer and his degenerate brood 
passed their declining years, and where little Phoebe 
mortally wounded the pride of Speckles. To be sure, 
an historical lie well stuck to is as good as the truth; 
but calling a house Seven Gables that has but four is 
stretching the elementary mathematics as well as the 
truth. 

Gorged at last with romance and history, we saunt- 
ered back to the trolley station, where we boarded the 
car for Beverley. Louisa was in raptures; and as we 
trolleyed past the ancient roofs and gables there floated 
before her eyes visions of canopies, brass candlesticks 
and colonial straight backs. Though " Old Essex " 
contains many notable estates and country seats, yet 
few of them are to be seen by the trolley traveller, for 
his course takes him through a rugged by-section. 
Near Pride's Crossing, Louisa had hoped to get a half 
glimpse at least of the famous Bartlett Gardens, but 
the trolley knew them not. 

On getting out into the open country, we felt once 
more the relentless force of the wind ; and by the time 
we had trundled into Ipswich Junction, a veritable gale 
was blowing. Indeed, the Junction, located as it was 



112 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



on a bleak hill-top, was exposed to the full fury of the 
blasts. 

Its chief habitation was a small and dingy frame build- 
ing, the ground floor of which served the purpose of a 
trolley waiting-room. Roughly pencilled over the door 
was a paraphrase of the grim legend on the portals of 
the Inferno; while its interior was garnished with 
row^s of glass jars filled with stick candy and gum- 




FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF SALEM 



drops. On the other side of the track loomed up a 
large advertising board plastered with a broad expanse 
of yellow paper which attracted Louisa's eye at once. 
" There's a splendid wind shield," she cried, nod- 
ding in the yellow direction; and on its lee side we 
quickly found shelter on scrambling out of the car. 
Meanwhile, as we lay in ambush for the connecting 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 113 

trolley, the piping blasts from off Cape Ann howled 
past our ears; nor did we venture forth from our 
retreat before we heard the whirr of the wheels coming 
up the hill. 

" It's against the rule/' said the conductor (we were 
trolley ing onward again) to a shivering passenger who 
had asked to have the windward curtain pulled down. 
Both spoke with a Yankee twang that bore unmistak- 
ably the rural hall-mark ; and. in fact, most of the pas- 
sengers were of the same type — a sedate, taciturn group 
for whom apparently life held but few charms. Indeed 
the trolley face one sees in " Old Essex '' is almost 
lugubrious. 

Perhaps after all. the sedate manner of our fellow- 
passengers was only another expression of the leis- 
urely calm that permeates all this section from Ipswich 
Junction to Newburyport. Here, in truth, time flits 
carelessly like a summer's day in Arden. The trolley 
service shared in the general spirit of repose, and we 
encountered wearisome delays at nearly every connect- 
ing point after leaving Salem. 

For that reason we were not surprised on ambling 
into Ipswich town ( the first station after leaving the 
Junction) to learn that we had just lost the connecting 
car. We found this drowsy little village in the sole 
possession — so far as outward signs went — of a tow- 
headed boy and girl who were loitering near the trolley 
station. Their attention was attracted at once to Kill- 
deer; and. after scrutinizing us with a baby stare, they 
decided to pardon our intrusion into their Arcadia. 

" Mister, please take my pixter." cried the little girl, 
radiant witli anticipated joy. As it chanced, both 

8 



114 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

cherubs had just been diving into a paper bag stuffed 
with molasses candy; and sundry foreign accretions on 
their chubby faces bore eloquent testimony to the havoc 
they had wrought. They seemed to be all fingers, and 
sticky ones at that, so that more than once Killdeer was 
profaned by the inquisitive touch of molasses before 1 
succeeded in shooting the coveted " pixter." Nor were 
" pixters " the limit of their \-outhful ambition. 




"mister, take mv pixter?" 

" Please take us with you to Rowley." chimed in 
the cherubs, after they had learned of our destination. 
To their imagination a ride t(^ Rowley, though only 
the adjoining town to Ipswich, promised all the nov- 
eltv of a plunge into the unknown ; and the long track 
and high trolley poles that stretched in that direction 
brought to their minds visions of the great 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



115 



wide world, where Jack the Giant Killer pursues 
the slaughtering business and Bluebeard hangs up his 
matrimonial difficulties nine at a time. Innocent little 
souls, what did they reck of Armour and beef trusts 
and South Dakota? So earnestly, in fact, did they 
plead that Louisa was sorely tempted to take them 
along to the next town, sending the little travelers 
back in charge of the conductor; but this, I argued, 




TROLLEY JUNCTION, NEAR DUMMERS 



might be construed as kidnapping. As our car pulled 
away, however, we watched the youthful guardians of 
Ipswich from the rear seat of the four-wheeler. When 
we turned a sharp bend in the road they were still 
standing by the station, looking wistfully after us. 

Like its immediate predecessors along the route, our 
car w^as an open single truck. Through it the high 



116 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 

wind had full sweep and continued to play fantastic 
tricks with the hats of unwary passengers. Near Bum- 
mer's a long stop was made expressly to allow one 
unfortunate to recover his derby which was soaring- 
back to Ipswich. As the man sprinted down the track 
in quest of it, the occupants of the four-wheeler, deeply 
sympathetic, quickly jumped out and lined up along the 
running board to watch the progress of the long chase. 
The man returned winded but triumphant; and then 
his fellow-passengers — for they were not of the emo- 
tional type — solemnly climbed into the car after him 
without giving the usual tribute of a cheer. 

It proved slow trolleying to Newburyport. At last 
the roofs and spires of the city by the Merrimac rose 
above the broad wolds; and we decided to break the 
journey there until Aeolus had exhausted his available 
supply of blasts and breezes. It's an ill-wind that 
doesn't know when to stop. 



CHAPTER X. 
Coming through the Rvtes. 

" It's Lafayette." said Louisa. 

" It reminds me of Timothy Dexter," I ventured. 

" O, I know now," she continued. " It's the very 
image of Whittier. Look at the set expression of the 
mouth." 

" That's Paul Jones' coat," I protested firmly. 




A NEWBURYPORT PARK 



We stood gazing- in perplexity at a statue on the 
edge of Newburyport's park. The figure, once bronze, 

117 



118 A TIWLLEY HONEYMOON 

had turned green with age or envy; but the imposing 
pedestal upon which it was perched argued a distin- 
guished man. On the pedestal, however, we could 
decipher no sign of identification — merely the name of 
the donor; and we concluded accordingly that the 
effigy was one of a local worthy. Louisa's curiosity, 
however, was sharply whetted and, spying an elderly 
man strolling along the shady side of the street, she 
sought enlightenment. 

"" Waslungton," said the stranger curtly, glaring sus- 
piciously at us. Though we blushed with mortification, 
we took refuge in the consoling thought that not even 
Washington's mother would have recognized the 
effigy in its neglected condition. 

Nor was that the only humiliating blunder we made. 
As we were strolling down the main street, our atten- 
tion was attracted by an old tavern sign which pro- 
jected from a tall post on the curb and upon which was 
painted the likeness of a man in tye wig and continental 
cockade, while below was the inscription, " James 
Wolfe. Esquire." 

" What Wolfe is that? " I enquired at random of a 
bright-eyed lad who chanced to be passing. 

" Why, that's the great general who took Quebec," 
returned the youth. " Didn't you ever read about him 
in American history ? " 

In spite of the rebuke by my young critic I could 
not help thinking that Newburyport had done a cruel 
injustice to the countenance of the hero. For the 
marked projection of the nose and lower lip beyond 
the face line not only marred the unity of design, but 
forced the belief that a man-fish sat as the artist's model. 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 119 

■" Could a man with gills like that," I thought, " have 
been the victor on the Heights of Abraham ? No v^on- 
der he died happy." Indeed the artist's four de force 
reminded one of the famous likeness of Sir Roger de 
Coverley, the portrait that merely by the addition of 
whiskers was transf<jrmed into a Saracen's head. 




OLD TAVERN SIGN, NEWBURYPORT 

The Wolfe tavern dates l)ack to 1762; but is only 
one of many reminders of colonial days that the tourist 
meets in Xewburyport. They bring to mind the city's 
historic past when its clippers sailed round the world 
and its name was interwoven with tales of romantic 
adventure on the high seas. There are other quaint 
survivals. For we were told that the town crier still 



120 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



walks his rounds here, though of late the office has 
been stripped of much of its old-time majesty. If this 
relic exists, however, we caught no sound of the crier's 
bell as we rambled through the Quaker-like calm of 
highway and byway. 

The next morning brought propitious trolley weather 
and we were soon whirling northward again. The 
high wind had died out and in mild air and gentle 




THAT HORRID INSURANCE MAN AGAIN 



breeze the dash o\-er the Merrimac was as exhilarating 
as the ride across the Chelsea bridge the morning before 
had been uncomfortable. 

As the jangle of the trolley gong Inu'st in upon the 
deep repose of Salisbury, the first station out of New- 
buryport, Louisa suddenly exclaimed : " Do look. 
There's that horrid insurance man again; " and turning 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 121 

I saw a tall figure in blue striding towards the station. 
We expected him to pounce down upon us the next 
moment and hail us wuth familiar flourish of insurance 
documents. Great was our relief, however, on scrut- 
inizing the stranger more closely to discover that 
though the resemblance was marked the man was not 
our tormentor. Indeed, we never laid eyes again upon 
the insurance man; but we learned upon our return 
home that our fun-loving friends in a sane interval had 
called off the demon from the pursuit. 

As we journeyed on from Salisbury, the number of 
trolley excursionists increased rapidly. Another 
change at State Line and rapid trolley ing (rapid, at 
least, according to Essex standards) along the New 
Hampshire shore soon brought in sight the embank- 
ment at Hampton Beach. 

A board walk ran its entire length and midway rose 
a pavilion from which floats strains of " My Lover Is 
on the Deep Blue Sea," mingled impartially with 
" What Are the Wild Waves Saying? " The futility, 
however, of such an enquiry was evident to us as we 
took our first glance seaward ; and even the musicians, 
when the lusty notes of the trombone died away, must 
have confessed that the waves had nothing whatever 
to say for publication. The sea w'as washing the sandy 
beach in placid ripples, while to the northeast we could 
make out the long, black outlines of Boar's Head jut- 
ting out into the sea. Few bathers were visible, but 
here and there groups of children, linked hand in hand, 
were making merry on the glistening sand. 

Glancing across the roadway in front of the pavilion, 
Louisa saw a large flaring sign near a horse-shoe arch- 



122 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



way announcing in bold letters " Shore Dinner; " and 
she promptly suggested that we should explore its 
mysteries. 

Its active principle proved to be clams, though in 
many forms. There were clams in the stew and on 
the shell; clams minced and devilled; steamed and 
roasted; fried and strained; clams, in short, in every 
guise. Yet all the courses were toothsome, all the 




HAMPTON •BEACH 



more, perhaps, because " Shore Dinner " etiquette 
sanctions the primitive use of one's fingers in lieu of 
forks; and we rose from the feast firm converts to a 
new faith, clammy though it was. As we emerged 
from the horse-shoe, we heard the rumble of the Ports- 
mouth car and we signaled just in time to get aboard. 
We fled none too soon; for while we were speeding 



A TEOLLEY HONEYMOON 123 

along the embankment, we could see the atmosphere 
around the music pavilion writhing in torture under 
the jugglery of Hi — but let it be nameless. 

As we trolleyed through the Ryes (three of them) 
our course gradually swerved from the shore and 
stretched at last through a quiet countryside, zigging 
and zagging into Portsmouth. 

Our first glimpse of this city brought back vivid 
memories of Newburyport. Not only its rambling 
roofs, antique gables and stately shade trees are rem- 
iniscent of the Massachusetts city, but it is enriched 
with an equal wealth of tradition. Such an atmos- 
phere coulcl not but lay its spell upon Louisa, who had 
here one of her severest attacks of history. A notable 
landmark is the old tavern, where in the days of Gov- 
ernor Wentworth, 

" Neat as a pin and blooming as a rose 
Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows. 
Just as her cuckoo clock was striking nine 
Above her head, resplendent on the sign." 

Portsmouth, too, has more than its past to endow it 
with interest. For it still continues to make history 
and make it in daily nectareous kegs, as the fame of 
its local brewery attests. 

A ferry ride across the bay to Kittery on the Maine 
shore made a brief interruption in our trolleying. We 
found the little ferry boat crowded with passengers, 
for the trip from Kittery to York Beach is a most 
popular one. Most of them had the New England 
seriousness of mien; and, though evidently tourists, 



124 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



yet as they stood huddled together on the forward deck 
they looked almost as depressed as if they were Siberian 
convicts on their way to Tomsk. Not so the purser, 
however; he was a jovial-looking soul who bore a 
resemblance to Sir Thomas Lipton. When I asked 
permission to snap him, he stepped out most consid- 
erately into the broiling sun and with a resigned air 
bade me do my worst. I did it. 




IN OLD PORTSMOUTH 



The beach car was waiting on the INIaine side near 
the ferry slip; and as the passengers streamed from 
the boat, the motorman sounded the warning gong. 
Of course everybody broke into a run, in which we 
joined with an eagerness inspired by the knowledge 
that it was our last stampede. Before we jumped 
aboard I snapped the car; and the next second we were 



A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 



125 



whirling toward York Beach 
or more of goodly trolleyin 
urable portions of the trip. 

" What place is this? " I 
man as we clambered out c 
point. 

" The jumping-off place," 
asperity in his tone. 

Our journey of five hundr 
a parting shot from Killdeer 
gently inverted him. Not a 



. Then followed ten miles 
g, one of the most pleas- 
asked a venerable-looking 
)f the car at the terminal 

he returned with a marked 

ed miles was over. I fired 
; and beheading Nicholas, 
nickel was left. 




'NOT A NICKEL WAS LEFT' 



THE END 



KNOWLEDGE vs. IGNORANCE 
GAINS vs. LOSSES 

The Key to Wall Street's Mysteries and Methods 

1 Vol. Cloth Price 1^5.00 

A PRACTICAL Instructor and Guide for the Speculator, In- 
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The art and science of successful trading is here taught in 
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At leading Bookstores or sent prepaid by the Publisjiers. 

^he M. W. HA^EJ^ COMTAJ^y 

27 Thames Sireei J^EW y^OTtK. 



NOV 10 1904 



